[ Sometime in the early evening, after the sun had set and a little past what might be considered a standard dinner time -- a light knock raps against Vergil's door.
Maruki stands there, a well-insulated bag in hand. It may not be a gift from home. Vergil may not appreciate the interruption, but Maruki wanted to bring this to him anyway. It was the kind thing to do -- especially when he suspects Vergil might be the sort who is often alone. There's nothing wrong with being a loner, but here in Folkmore where the currency hinges upon interaction? The inclination to avoid people only makes it that much harder. So it's up to some of the more sociable types to ensure those loners are well-taken care of!
Of course, there's very little Maruki can do if Vergil refuses to answer the door. But hopefully it won't come to that. He lightly knocks again. ]
[Maruki's assumptions about Vergil's tendency to keep to himself isn't altogether misplaced. Even before his mother's death, Vergil wasn't particularly extroverted. He'd preferred the company of adults as a child, often being devastated any time either of his parents shooed him away from discussions that he didn't need to be participate in or seeking out conversation with the kindly older gentleman that allowed Vergil to run rampant in his library. It wasn't just because he'd liked it when they talked to him in a way that filled him with the sort of self-importance that always comes in one's youth when not being patronized by an adult, but because they also let him be more readily. They weren't like Dante or the other children who always were so full of noise and constantly seeking attention. And that tendency, that preference for the quiet never went away.]
[But where Maruki gets it wrong is in his assumption that Vergil is somehow on the brink of disaster because of his more reserved, private nature. He knows how to survive on less, but more than that, Vergil's pragmatic enough to understand if he wants to survive, he can't be entirely on his own. And so, he does what must and makes do with the little snippets of conversation here and there. Today has been such a day where the majority of it has been spent gathering enough lore that he ought to have enough to replenish his foodstuffs tomorrow.]
[Thus, the evening was his. Or it was meant to be, in any case.]
[Returning to his apartment in the late afternoon, he'd spent the time practicing his form. Even if the threats seem significantly minimal in Folkmore and he's still without Yamato, there is something inherently meditative to the practice for Vergil; never mind that it also satisfies his need for self-discipline to keep his skills sharp. After enough practice for one afternoonβif such a thing truly existedβhe opted for a quick shower. It's shortly after that, when Vergil's just putting on a kettle for some tea that there's knocking at his front door.]
[At the first knock, Vergil's brow furrows and he looks at the door from the kitchen almost as though it's offended him personally.]
[At the second knock, he sighs. Although Vergil's certainly put out with his solitude being disturbed, he doesn't deign to be rude to whoever is intruding on his evening. Vergil finishes selecting his mug from the cabinet, placing it down on the countertop near to the stove before hitting the pause button on the quiet music that had been playing on his relic. Running his fingers through his hair, Vergil pushes it back to be mildly a little more presentable despite his current attire of a plain t-shirt and sweatpants. His hair is still damp enough from the shower that it minds the redirection easily enough.]
[He makes it to the door before there can be a third knock, opening the door wide enough for the both of them to see one another, but certainly not wide enough to signal any invitation to come inside. Much like before when Maruki was at his door, Vergil's brow furrows slightly as he looks from Maruki to his insulated bag.]
You again. [It's said more like a statement of fact that it is, indeed, Maruki again rather than an accusation or irritability. He meets Maruki's gaze.] What do you want?
[ It's heartening that the door opens. Maruki straightens himself, expression pleasant even in spite of the slightly uncharacteristic greeting. ]
Good evening!
[ Judging by his attire, Vergil appears to be ready to settle into that evening. A slightly apologetic expression comes to Maruki's face, even though he doesn't outright apologize. The damage is done. The door is open. He'll be quick! ]
It's New Years Eve. I don't know if you're familiar with Japanese traditions...but I made just a little too much Toshikoshi Soba for myself and Minato-kun tonight, so I thought you might appreciate it.
[ He carefully removes the inner bag from the insulated one to reveal a hearty bowl of noodles, vegetables, and a fish cake on top. The steam still pours out from under the lid. ]
It's a meal meant to bring good fortune into the New Year and one that's rich with symbolism -- To break free of ones past and to gather strength and resilience like the tough buckwheat crop.
[ Maruki places a sleeve of chopsticks on top of the bowl and then offers the bag in Vergil's direction. ]
I won't claim to be a professional chef or anything, but I am proud of how I've perfected this throughout the years.
[ The pleasantries fade to something uncharacteristic for Maruki, something softer and more forlorn. ]
It's been a long while since I could celebrate the New Year with anyone other than myself for company.
[ But just as quickly as he let that sorrow shadow his face, it's gone because Maruki has to remember the things he is grateful for. He's not alone. He'll go back to his place and be able to celebrate the stroke of midnight with Minato. He has a second chance, and maybe in this world...he can find the right path for his life to take. ]
But I digress! Sharing the wishes for a good fortune and wishing you a Happy New Year was all I wanted.
[Vergil can't help the skeptical eyebrow that rises when Maruki's tone seems to be trying to imply that he just happened to have accidentally made too much soba for two people to eat. Vergil doesn't trust that it was some sort of happy little accident since there was absolutely no reason to assume anything about Vergil when it pertained to food beyond that he most likely needed to eat. And not only that, Maruki certainly didn't have any incentive to bring anything to Vergil in the first place or speak to him again. When they met, the half-devil didn't do anything to invite conversation. Hell, even once Maruki managed to pique Vergil's interest, it wasn't really Maruki.]
[Thus, Vergil's skepticism is about to be followed with outright suspicion quickly thereafter as Maruki explains the symbolism behind the food and offers it to him. What slows it from manifesting, however, is Vergil himself lacks enough to formulate possible ulterior motives. What ultimately stops it in its tracks is that little remark and shift in Maruki's tone.]
[The man is clearly lonely. No wonder why he's being so persistent in the face of... Well, Vergil isn't exactly outright rejecting Maruki, but he's not being particularly inviting either.]
[Granted, it could also all be an act.]
[Rather than taking the offered food, Vergil scrutinizes the man at his door.]
[...Then again, if this man is somehow pulling one over Vergil, he's likely an incredibly talented actor while also having the world's worst intuition on how to effectively manipulate others.]
[Vergil's pause in taking the offered food or responding to the well wishes lasts a moment longer before he opens the door a little wider.]
If you would like to come in for a few minutes, I was just making some tea.
[He can humor this lonely human for a few minutes. At the very least, it won't create a situation where there's a perceived debt between them if Vergil exchanges something in return. And if nothing else, it would serve to either confirm Vergil's suspicions if these few minutes prove to be what he was truly after or prove there is some other motive waiting to yet be revealed. And in that circumstance, it is certainly better for Vergil to have a close eye on him than nothing at all.]
[ There's a brief moment of surprise at the offer. Truly, he figured he would dump the food off (if Vergil even took it in the first place) and then be on his way. About the last thing he expected was an invitation for a cup of tea. But it's certainly a welcome surprise and Maruki's expression brightens. He's not foolish enough to think he must be winning Vergil over, but this is a step in the right direction! ]
Yes, please. That would be lovely. Thank you! It is quite a long trip back to Leshy...
[ Which does beg the question how the food managed to stay so warm. But that's nothing a tiny bit of fire magic couldn't take care of!
Takuto steps into the entrance once Vergil moves to allow it and pauses to remove his boots at the door. Whether Vergil takes the food from him or Maruki carries it to the table himself, when his hands are free he loosens the light blue scarf so that the tails simply drape around his shoulders.
Giving a cursory glance around the apartment, he takes note of two things. The swords and the bookshelf. While the swords aren't too unusual (Maruki had figured Vergil to be a warrior of some kind) the books aren't exactly expected. Unfairly, Maruki had assumed because Vergil was a man of few words, he was also a man who didn't necessarily like words. But that doesn't seem to be the case. Instead Vergil is like a good novel, hiding away beneath a thick cover with a unique personality and story within the pages. Granted, this shelf could be decoration alone, but Maruki has to resist every urge to head over and start perusing the titles -- to eagerly look for a connection point, something they could chat about. But he'll be polite for now. He's not looking to get kicked out when he'd only just got invited!
Besides, he thinks he has a better idea at a first connection point -- something Vergil might be infinitely more comfortable with. It's not Maruki's particular interest since he leans heavily toward the intellectual, but he would be remiss if he didn't try to sharpen his skillset here. ]
Is it your preference to train alone, Mr. Vergil? Or would you perhaps be interested in a sparring partner? I know I might not look like much, but I assure you...I could be a worthy opponent. This world still allows me access to my powers.
[ He winces slightly. ]
Though my stamina is certainly not what it was back home. That's something I'm in great need to improve. It already proved dangerous during the Wild Hunt a month ago. I managed to save a few others, but I couldn't keep up against the fae for long and found myself surrounded.
[ Shaking his head, he gets back to the point. ]
But if you would be willing to offer your aid, I would be eternally grateful!
[Once the offer for a cup of tea is enthusiastically accepted, Vergil takes the food from Maruki to free up his hands for getting himself situated with whatever outerwear is more comfortable to temporarily shed or adjust. As Maruki is managing his boots, Vergil closes the door behind him and steps further back into his apartment. For now, the soba is deposited onto the table that serves as a place for Vergil to take his meals. Pressed against the wall just a few steps from the kitchen, the table is small enough to only host two although assumptions that the second chair rarely sees use wouldn't be off the mark.]
[Vergil returns to his kitchen and puts the mug he grabbed earlier away. Rather than simply grabbing a second mug, Vergil opts for teacups. He'd determined he would entertain this man for a few minutes and he meant it. A teacup would mean a bit quicker consumption of the tea and send him on his way sooner than a mug. He places both mugs and saucers on a small tray, alongside a teapot and strainer.]
It's just Vergil, [he first corrects as he opens the tea tin and begins scooping out the leaves for the teapot.] I'm not an instructor. Defeating those with less skill and power than myself is meaningless.
[While it's certainly a mark of arrogance on Vergil's part both in the assumption Maruki could not keep up with him and that it is beneath him to engage with those weaker than himself, there's also something that's deeply pragmatic about it all the same. Vergil truly can't gain much from a sparring match against a weaker and less skilled opponent. His skills don't improve from the fight and there's no pride or satisfaction to be taken in defeating an opponent who won't prove a challenge.]
If you wish to improve, I'm sure there are plenty at the schools that will take that on.
[Unfortunately, Maruki's assurance to Vergil that he could be worthy isn't enough to convince Vergil. The drive to want to improve is admirable, of course. Taking a defeat and using it to motivate oneself towards improvement is the only respectable outcome to Vergil. But could be isn't the same as would be. A lack of confidence is just as much a mark of a lack of skill as anything else. One could possess all the power in the world, but a lack of confidence inhibits their ability to maximize their potential with it because they begin to second guess and hesitate.]
[Vergil simply isn't keen on sparring with someone who lacks confidence any more than he is someone who lacks power.]
[The kettle on the stovetop begins to whistle and Vergil steps over to turn the stove off and place the kettle on another burner.]
Do you take anything with your tea?
[Vergil doesn't, but he's willing to accommodate and add sugar and/or milk to the tray.]
[ Maruki answers of the tea first, opting for silence immediately after Vergil's assertion about their power levels. He's not offended. It's clear looking at him, Maruki comes across more like a bumbling idiot than anything. If he emphatically insisted he was strong enough, it would likely only come across as a petulant child trying to insist he was good enough to play a sport against the older boys. Something that comes from a place of wanting to fit in rather than any skill. Maruki doesn't truly want to fight. He doesn't want to fit in. He just wants to protect people....
Settling into the largely unused seat, he folds his hands on the table and spares a glance toward the swords on the wall again. Maruki had only hoped to make a friend, but perhaps it was unfair to himself to try and capitulate to the Vergil's interests in hopes it would open up a chance for them to get to know each other. ]
I suppose you are correct that this would be an issue better suited to one of the schools. Truthfully, I'm not sure even you would be able to withstand my power and I wouldn't wish to hurt you.
[ There isn't a shred of pride or ego in his tone. Maruki is honest. And he certainly doesn't look at the other man with pity or superiority. It's only a pragmatic expression he offers as he folds his hands on the table. ]
But I don't precisely take comfort in utilizing Thirteen's methods to further my own strength. My power is my own.
[ And if things continue the way they are within this world, there may come a time when that power needed to go against Thirteen. ]
[At the indication he isn't interested in any sugar or milk, Vergil picks up the kettle and brings it to the teapot to pour it. Maruki is getting settled into his seat as Vergil places the lid on the teapot. There isn't a spared glance in the other man's direction when Vergil takes the couple of steps necessary to set the kettle back on the stove, but he is listening as Maruki makes his claim of not wanting to hurt Vergil.]
[Were he decades younger, it's no doubt that would have sparked some kind of reaction in Vergil. He had so much to prove back then and any insinuation of weakness was always met with a swift, efficient show of force to prove otherwise. But as it is, Vergil finds it faintly amusing that Maruki of all people could somehow hurt him in any significant way when others with more overt strength and power haven't been able to break him, but it doesn't show anywhere in his expression. He just picks up the tray and brings it to the table, setting it in the middle. Vergil pulls out the other chair, turning it so the back rests against the wall before he takes a seat.]
[He leaves the tea alone to steep in the pot, folding his arms across his chest. Vergil doesn't look over at Maruki, instead looking out the balcony that he's positioned the table across from. Vergil hasn't closed the blinds yet for the evening, allowing a view of Epiphany to still be visible beyond the slight glare from the apartment lights.]
And yet, you would find enough comfort to train with me. Someone you don't truly know both in motivation and intention, but seem to think you do after a few minutes of being around them. For all you know, I could kill you where you sit before you could even draw your next breath.
[He hums in his quiet, faint amusement. There's almost a smile.]
[It's curious, he thinks. This man seems so entirely unassuming, but he's bold enough to try and claim he possesses within him a great power. He's almost blind in his trust with a near-stranger and yet he's skeptical of the being that brought them both here. It's a curious dichotomy. But it is also terribly human, Vergil thinks. Maruki doesn't know Vergil to be anything other than human. There's nothing about Vergil that would lead him to conclude otherwise without any sort of supernatural or heightened senses, which he clearly does not possess. But he knows Thirteen isn't human. He knows she operates on rules that are unconventional to humans. Perhaps even, at times, antithetical. And he probably knows well enough fox spirits tend to be tricksters in most folklore. He wonders if Maruki would think differently if he knew. If Vergil were to claim his heritage right here and now, how quickly would his perspective shift and change?]
[Vergil doesn't experiment with it and lets it be. He turns his head to look at Maruki.]
Regardless, my answer remains the same. You'll need to find someone else among the...Star Children. [He finds the term silly, and that much is likely clear by the way he hesitates before saying it never mind the tone. Vergil looks back out at the world outside his apartment.] I'm sure there are plenty that would be eager. And you wouldn't need to rely upon Thirteen for any of it.
[Something Vergil privately approves of Maruki doing even if he won't say as much directly. His power is his own, he said. Hopefully he shall be able to stick to it, Vergil thinks as his gaze darts briefly to the katana he had been practicing with earlier. Vergil wasn't left with much choice in that particular matter when it comes to his weapons.]
[ While Vergil's focus seems to be everywhere but on Maruki himself, the counselor watches him -- quiet, appraising, and curious. He makes bold claims about possibilities. Possibilities that he could be cruel or murderous, possibilities that Maruki could have been so foolish as to enter the spider's parlor and find himself a victim of his killing blow. Sure, those things could be possibilities. But Vergil hasn't made a move to kill him. After ample opportunities to do so, he hasn't. And perhaps it might be missed, but for a brief moment, there's a spark of something beyond the friendly exterior -- a spark of rebellious determination that Vergil could try to kill him, but Maruki wouldn't be so easy to kill. A backbone where he might be otherwise considered spineless.
But even so, Vergil reiterates his disinterest in training and that's that. Maruki won't protest. He simply removes his glasses and takes a cloth from his breast pocket to polish them. ]
Fair enough.
[ The glasses are returned to his face and it's back to the mild-mannered, gentle expression again. With a quiet laugh, Maruki shakes his head. ]
Though let's be clear, I don't presume to know a single thing about you, Vergil. I can craft ideas, I can come up with theories and have my guesses...but I will never be as bold as to claim I know your motivations. And I certainly will never be as bold as to claim I trust you. The only thing I see when I look at you is someone who is far too used to being alone.
[ And maybe Vergil is happy that way. Maybe he's content to carry on in solitude. Maybe he will claim he doesn't need any kind of companionship because his books and his swords are enough. But would that be the truth? ]
I don't know the circumstances behind it. I don't know your life. I don't know what led you to follow the fox in the first place. The only thing I do know is you've tolerated my company thus far. And so, I would like to keep offering it. As someone else who is far too used to being alone. A fool of a man who thought that by becoming his world's god, he could fill the hole in his life.
[ Slowly, Maruki reaches out to take the tea pot so he can pour himself a cup. Vergil has tolerated his presence, but Maruki knows the time is ticking down. So he'll get the tea cooling to drink it and be on his way -- to not outstay his very thin welcome. ]
I will admit, the only reason I offered training is because I thought you might be more tolerant of that kind of continued contact as opposed to the conversational sort. But perhaps that was presumptuous of me, and I do apologize if so.
[Without turning his head, Vergil looks at Maruki out of the corner of his eye when he claims Vergil looks like someone accustomed to being on their own. No, not being on their own. Alone. There's a distinction there. On one hand, Vergil can count the connections he's had with others throughout his lifetime, and the majority of them are people he knew before his life was forever changed, and his path was decided for him. His mother. His brother. His father. There's only been one other, and... Well, if she's still alive, Vergil assumes she's most likely forgotten him. He hopes she's forgotten him and moved on with her life, to someone who could give her all the things he was never capable of giving her in the first place. On the other...]
[Vergil looks away again as Maruki continues, pouring himself his serving of tea. He opts to close his eyes for a moment, focusing on the scent of the tea as the warm, woody notes of the Rooibos tea rises from Maruki's cup. It's a sweeter blend with cacao and caramel to balance the nuttier and smokier flavoring. Perfect for a cold winter day.]
[Strange as it is to consider, it seems that Vergil and Maruki are cut from a similar cloth to one another if what Maruki claims is true. Vergil was never trying to abate his loneliness. He learned first to tolerate it, survive it, and then thrive within it. But he tried so hard for so long to use power as a means of eliminating that weakness and vulnerability he so feared and dread to ever feel again. It could have very well driven him to madness or worse, but in all his philosophies and attempts to protect himself and what he had... Vergil had only known loss. Again and again.]
I have spent the past two and a half decades in the Underworld. [He opens his eyes, turning his head to look at Maruki again. Continuing, he sounds almost as though he were scolding Maruki, agreeing that it was presumptuous on Maruki's part when he says,] I'm not averse to conversation.
[Vergil pauses before he adds, a little gentler,] It's simply rare amid the filth of that place that you will find anything akin to intelligence.
[It's the closest Vergil is willing to be in saying that he's not accustomed to conversation and hasn't been in a very long time. He brushes past the admission quickly, turning in his seat to pour himself his own cup of tea, he continues,]
Being on my own is of little consequence to me and I won't abide pity. So, if your intentions are to make me feel better, it's a matter that doesn't bother or pain me. Or if you've concerns I might starve to death in this place, I know what it takes to survive and manage fine on my own within the parameters Thirteen has set. But if you're looking to ease your own loneliness...
[He sets the teapot down and places the strainer back down near the center of the tray. He moves his teacup from the tray to the table in front of him before settling back to his original position. This time, he rests a forearm on the edge of the table as he looks back out toward the balcony.]
There are others who would likely make for better company.
[ Two and a half decades in the Underworld. Two and a half. Twenty-five years. Maruki's expression is one of surprise, initially. The Underworld could mean a lot of things. It could be true that Vergil comes from no version of Earth and this is something different to him. It could also be true the Underworld is a version of hell -- and that's where Maruki's initial thoughts land, reinforced by Vergil's confession about the filth and lack of intelligence found therein. Where Maruki's surprised expression goes from there is oddly to one of warmth. It would be easy to feel sympathy for Vergil -- to assume it must have been dire circumstances that led him to live his life in the Underworld. Maruki could get wrapped up in his bleeding heart because he does feel awful that anyone should have to live that way.
But Vergil shared with him. Vergil shared this one truth about his life. He wasn't forced. After their initial meeting and Vergil's refusal to even confirm or deny whether Maruki's guesses were correct, Maruki never thought Vergil would part with any sort of information without a great deal of arm twisting or questioning that bordered the edge of annoyance. Certainly, he never expected anything unprompted. And Maruki cannot hide the warm appreciation at receiving even a sliver of insight into the other.
He gently lifts his tea, parting the steam with a gentle breath before taking a sip. What a unique and delectable blend! ]
While that may be true in regards to quote unquote "better company," I hardly find yours unpleasant.
[ The cup is returned to the table and he looks up at Vergil. ]
If there have to be intentions of any sort assigned to this, why not consider it a mutually beneficial arrangement? Since lore is the currency, we both stand to gain from any interaction. It certainly sounds better than you merely tolerating the company of a lonely man.
[ There's a soft, throaty laugh as his eyes return to the tea -- tracing the tendrils of vapor as they rise up into the air. ]
Hm, I know! I love trying new recipes and I can tell you have quite the discerning palate -- so what if I cooked you dinner once a week and you gave me your feedback? You can criticize me as harsh and brutally as you wish -- the lore is not nearly as discerning!
[At Maruki's proposition, Vergil spares a glance in the direction of the gifted soba that he's yet to even touch. He likely wasn't trying to seek Vergil's consent for something as extensive as his opinions on the food, but Vergil finds it likely that his acceptance or rejection of the soba would have served as some form of consent for a similar arrangement. It brings to alert some old instincts quickly because it seems a great deal of effort for...? That's the part Vergil finds himself having a difficult time making sense of no matter how hard he tries. Maruki hasn't made his intentions known at all even if Vergil has the sense that if he were to call him out on it, he'd deny that being the case. But it is. The devil knows it for certain because whatever intentions Vergil speculates upon aloud, Maruki doesn't deny them. But neither does he truly acknowledge it as the reason either.]
[Vergil hums thoughtfully.]
Very well. [He looks at Maruki. He doesn't know this man's intentions truly. Not enough to completely rule him out as a potential threat that Vergil cannot see just yet because of his own assumptions. But it's better to keep someone like this closer at his own choice than the alternative.] Once a week.
[Vergil meant what he said about not being one for pity, and he's not about to tolerate several meals per week being provided to him. He also lets his tone imply this counts for this week before Maruki goes and gets any ideas.]
The convenient matter of Vergil living in the mostly popular location in Folkmore, an apartment complex in Epiphany, is that it makes it relatively easy to track him down. Mizu's mostly healed when she comes to his door, well enough she could fight him then and there, if she went without one key element to her weaponry, the ability to transform her sword into a naginata. Part of her wants to fight today, but she doesn't expect it and hasn't set her hopes on it. That would be the way to get disappointed.
Mizu knocks dressed as she always is, though this version of her outfit has never been chewed up on one side. There's the chance he isn't home. Mizu doesn't know his hours, his comings and goings. She can always come back again.
Vergil's leg comes to a perfect stop just before connecting with the heavy bag at the sound of a knock at his door. He stays like that for a moment longer, listening carefully to see if it's really at his door. Few people ever visit the half-devil and he knows it's not time for his weekly visitor to bring by the usual excess amount of food. It wouldn't be out of the question that a neighbor had a visitor instead and there will either be another knock or the sound of a door opening soon after. When nothing else comes, Vergil lowers his leg with a sigh, setting his foot back down in a smooth motion, intent on minimizing any sort of sway and firmly maintaining his balance. At least if there's to be a disruption, it was before he was really able to properly start with his training, he supposes.
He pads his way barefoot to the front door from the living area he designated for training and practice rather than entertaining company, his approaching footsteps likely still audible on the other side of the door. When he opens the door, Mizu is greeted by both a familiar and unfamiliar sight. One the one hand, Vergil's stern expression has gone absolutely nowhere. The mild irritation at being disturbed persists until Vergil realizes it's Mizu. Even then, it's not as though his expression suddenly becomes one of immense warmth. On the other hand, Vergil is significantly dressed down with only handwraps and loose sweatpants on. Even if Mizu couldn't necessarily piece together he was likely about to start training, it's clear Vergil wasn't expecting him.
"Let me guess," he says, "you've come for your tools."
He doesn't wait for him to answer, stepping back inside his studio apartment and leaving the door open. Vergil assumes Mizu following is dependent upon what he wants to do rather than the presence of an invitation. It makes little difference to Vergil either way. Akin to Mizu's cabin in Wintermute, there isn't much by way of personal effects in Vergil's apartment. Past the small entryway wherein there's a door for the bathroom and a closet, a bookcase at the foot of the bed demarcates a place to sleep from the training area. Just outside the kitchen, pressed against the wall is a table with only two chairs. One of the chairs isn't pushed in and instead has its back also against the wall. Its position allows for looking out over the whole of the apartment and out the balcony glass doors. Everything about the arrangement of Vergil's place seems to serve some practical purpose and beyond the books on the shelf, the only real personal touches seem to be some of Vergil's training equipment, an amulet with a palm-sized gem on a nightstand, and a few potted plants that seem to be adequately cared for near the balcony door.
Vergil makes his way over to the wardrobe in his sleeping area, sliding it open.
The near lack of clothes catches Mizu off guard. His change on recognizing her speaks to not knowing Mizu was the one at the door. It could have been someone else, yet he didn't take the time to dress before answering the door. It's not like she approached a teahouse where men are sometimes shoved out naked with their clothes thrown after them. Nor is it a kami festival where everyone jumps naked into the sea. Yet he's far from the first person Mizu has seen in a state of undress, so it isn't terribly shocking. Only unexpected.
Pants like his would be more useful than the clothing Thirteen gave Mizu that Mizu... ignored. Those clothes were men's clothes, but they were men's clothes for court, and Mizu has no reason to wear anything that fancy. She closes the door behind her and checks out the rest of the living space, if it can really be called that.
"My tools, yes, though I wouldn't mind a light round or two," Mizu smiles a little at that. If she's not the only one going without a weapon, fair is fair. "They're mostly recovered. I didn't want to wait longer to get my tools or we'd be delayed." She crosses her arms, leaning against the wall, muttering, "I've already waited longer than I'd like."
With his back to Mizu, Vergil quirks a brief smile at the mention of a round or two. He feels safe in the assumption that constitutes a light round to the two of them probably isn't the same for others. He reaches to the top shelf within his wardrobe and pulls down the tools from where they've been carefully tucked away. In truth, it had taken some time for Vergil to find the set. Vergil doesn't know the first thing about smithing, but he wouldn't present something not to Mizu's standards. He took his time in doing a bit of research before making the purchase to be certain he wasn't about to be swindled and provide Mizu with tools that would only hinder his craft in the end. He also threw in a little extra to be certain they had an appropriate pack for easy transportation and maintenance.
"That eager to lose, are you?" he says, sliding the wardrobe shut. He continues as he makes his way back over to Mizu, "I should tell you to take your tools and leave. Mostly recovered isn't recovered, and defeating you when you're still injured won't mean much otherwise."
Vergil hesitates for a moment before he holds the pack of tools out to Mizu by the straps.
"Then again, you have interrupted my training. And if you wish to take the place of the heavy bag for the day, who am I to deny you?"
As much as he's tried not to view humans as fragile, inferior beings, he can't entirely deny his own impatience for Mizu's injuries to heal sufficiently. There hasn't been any who provided Vergil the same sort of thrill as their fight in Wintermute, and he's almost find himself craving it. He hasn't... Well, he wouldn't say exactly he's been antsy to fight Mizu again, but there have been some days and nights where he's felt himself tempted to find him again. Vergil always talked himself down though because it wasn't the agreement and Mizu needed time to heal. He had to exert patience that usually came naturally and easily to him.
Most men talk a good game, from the most foolhardy apprentice to the master duelist to an assassin and beyond. Words aren't how you tell the seasoned from the unseasoned. It's in their stance, their moves, and Mizu's seen enough of Vergil's to know he can back them up. All the same, they are fighting words, and her stance shifts ever so slightly. Balanced weight, light on her feet, and ready to spring into action. Should his stance shift, Mizu will be ready for it.
Only to receive the tools and to scowl at the idea beating her like this wouldn't mean much. She's barely injured! In far better shape than when she infiltrated Fowler's castle, much less when she reached the top and faced him for the first time. Mizu stares defiantly at Vergil, convinced well enough of her own value. She has to be able to fight in any condition, not simply at full health. Life doesn't wait. She has half a mind to attack Vergil as he is, though she knows he's not as empty handed as he looks, as most people would be. Not while she's holding the tools. Those are too valuable to risk damaging and to force her to find decent ones herself.
With care, Mizu sets the pack of tools down by the door, out of the way of the main area in the living space. She eyes the bag, quite incapable of fighting back, and harumphs. "You can take whatever handicap you wish," Mizu says, "to make it mean something."
She holds her sword by its sheath. "I take it we try to leave the walls standing." She's smiling.
Although he doesn't disbelieve Mizu when he says that his injuries have mostly healed, Vergil is still mindful of how Mizu moves now. He watches closely for any twinges of pain or awkward movement that would suggest tight bindings were keeping wounds closed. But there's nothing in his movements that would suggest he's still carrying around any significant wounds.
"Anything broken or damaged is on you to repair or replace," Vergil teases. Most of the time, his jokes are likely difficult to discern considering his tone rarely ever shifts meaningfully enough to show it. But there's perhaps just enough of a smile on his face that it translates to his voice that he doesn't actually hold any expectations of Mizu doing anything of the sort. Vergil walks into his training area, bending down as he picks up a spare pair of handwraps. He tosses them in Mizu's direction. "No blades today if we have any hope of the building still standing by the time we're done."
One huff of a laugh comes out at the idea of Mizu paying to fix what they break. She's broken so many buildings across so many villages and towns. One more thing she leaves in her wake, along with the wounded and the dead. That reminds Mizu to purchase or remake the other supplies she brought with her to Fowler's castleβthe explosive, the wire. As with the impenetrable fortress, she needs every trick and advantage she can over Vergil. Not today, no, but another day. Mizu catches the wraps Vergil throws and sets aside her sword, her cloak, and her hat hanging down her back. After a moment's consideration, she also removes the tinted glasses, folding them, and setting them beside the rest. Without them, it's clear her eyes are blue, her hideousness on display. Vergil hasn't given a damn about her looks, but if it causes problems, better it does so now, not in the middle of something.
She acts like it's nothing.
"You always use those fancy moves when you fight with a sword?" Mizu asks, mouth quirking up. She wraps her hands the way she sees his are, as she hasn't used them before. She trained alone for years, and in combat, the times she had to use her hands, it wasn't planned. No smooth transition. Even when she wrestled Taigen, it wasn't exactly planned. So she protects her hands, a first for that, and steps further into the room, the training area.
Vergil was going to suggest Mizu remove his glasses if he hadn't already made the decision to do so himself. Although he notices just how strikingly blue Mizu's eyes are without the tint of the lensesβmore akin to ice than the near-grayness of his own eyesβVergil doesn't make any sort of comment about them nor does he otherwise gawk.
"Not always, no," Vergil replies as Mizu begins wrapping his hands. "The filth in the demon world aren't usually intelligent enough to merit that sort of effort."
A good portion of the demons one would face there are little more than beasts themselves. Their decisions are based on instinct more than careful decision-making. If they appear to be acting upon orders, it's like an illusion crafted by a more intelligent demon who understands their nature and instincts. The situation has most certainly been manipulated in those circumstances. The rest that one might commonly run into are only just barely intelligent enough to follow orders as the rank and file of a would-be army. But regardless of whether it's instinct or orders, Yamato has always dispatched them quickly with little need for Vergil's skills even when presenting themselves in numbers against him.
"But I am not the only one who would be a hazard to the structural integrity of the building with a blade in my hand." Mizu may not have the ability to summon blades or a clone of himself to fight in his stead, but raw power like that wasn't always indicative of how damage one could do. That burning fire in Mizu did plenty on its own from what Vergil had already seen with how he ultimately lost a bit of his control. Vergil rolls his shoulders as Mizu steps back into the training area. "Last time, I'll admit, you surprised me. I wasn't anticipating a brawl. But surprising me isn't the same as impressing me. I want to know if you can do better than that."
Unlike the last time they fought, Vergil doesn't merely stand there. This time he adopts a stance. Vergil turns himself slightly, positioning one leg behind and bringing the fist on the same side just below his chin while the other hovers around his waist.
"I know you don't particularly care about that though. I'm not a fool. I know my curiosity is for my own satisfaction. So, consider this an opportunity to learn and train."
It's not said with the sort of arrogance most might have and even Vergil could easily be accused of using frequently. Instead, it's an acknowledgment of what Mizu has mentioned before of watching how others fight and learning what he can from it. Vergil's certain there's something Mizu can learn today in the absence of a weapon and needing to rely upon his own body as a weapon if what happened last time was any indication. And unlike Mizu, Vergil has trained himself to fight just as well with his fists and feet even if his preference will always be with a sword in his hand.
"I won't hit you with the entirety of my strength." Vergil doesn't say this to condescend. Mizu's felt a bit of Vergil's strength the last time when he was able to fling the other swordsman with little effort on his part. If he were to strike Mizu with all his might, their sparring would be over in a single blow. Even if he managed to somehow not kill Mizu, at the very least, the other man would be out cold in an instant. He trusts Mizu to understand that, which is why he offers no clarification. "You are free to do as you wish."
It's not as though Vergil bruises easily or that he's an easy target to hit even in close quarters.
Mizu manages not to roll her eyes at the comment about surprising Vergil not impressing him. About wanting to know if she can do better. So long as he continues to spar and fight with her, Mizu doesn't need his good opinion. She's past wanting people to think well of her. Disappointment and pain are the only things to come of that. A small pang at the thought. Ringo's rejection and cold shoulder. Someone whose opinion she never thought would matter.
Vergil, thankfully, knows that too. Knows his opinion doesn't matter. That makes everything far more acceptable. Tolerable. Comfortable even. As much as Mizu goes everywhere with a sword, it is possible to be caught without it, to have to fight without it. Mizu resists the urge to grab something else to act as a weapon. She's weaker than Vergil. A pure contest of might would go his way. As much as Mizu hates to admit it, even without him using his full strength, it could. No she must use more than that. She must use his strength against him. "You might take down a wall if you did that."
Then he'd have an issue with his neighbor. Not Mizu, though.
She shifts into a stance, adapting from one meant to have a sword, because Mizu has never trained particularly to fight without weapons. Some techniques have come over time. A move here. Another there. The focus, however, has always been swords. Still, she has some experience. She pinned Taigen. Repeatedly.
Mizu closes the gap. A jab. A feint. A move to sweep his front leg out from under him. It isn't a brawl, but Mizu doesn't fight clean either.
Starting from where he knows what to do isn't a bad tactic. The principles aren't altogether dissimilar when it comes to what's important to protect and how to balance offense with defense. It's interesting to watch, too, if Vergil is honest. Without a weapon in his hand, Mizu is immediately forced to adapt and modify. He can't be at the other end of a sword, but must approach far closer if he has any hope of hitting his mark.
It's not a bad attempt. The thought process is correct, in any case, by Vergil's assessment since he doesn't find the attempted sweep to be fighting dirty. Instead, it's a clear strategy. A jab or two to keep an opponent's attention on protecting their head or torso leaves them significantly more vulnerable to any strikes against their legs usually. It might alter their stance just enough that it will send them stumbling even if it can't actually knock them to the ground. But Vergil is naturally heavier than Mizu and his weight doesn't shift back from that front leg nearly enough to send him crashing to the floor or even remotely stumbling after he slaps away Mizu's initial jab.
His swift response somewhat mirrors Mizu's attempt, but with a more disciplined approach rather than the improvisation that Mizu is using. Vergil lashes out twice with his fists to Mizu's torso, and once with an elbow toward his head. It matters little to him if any of his blows land, however, as the real threat is Vergil's back leg. Vergil steps forward with the small flurry, leading him into a vicious kick wherein he attempts to slam his shin directly into Mizu's outer thigh just above his knee joint to destabilize him. If the kick lands, Mizu will either need to stumble and regain his balance, or he will end up on the floor with the force of Vergil's kick alone. After all, Vergil said this was an opportunity to learn.
He never once said the lessons would be gentle.
Then again, it isn't entirely like their last fight for that reason. Vergil isn't seeking to dominate. As he said before, he's not interested in defeating Mizu without Mizu being at his best. There would be time for a proper rematch later. Right here and now, Vergil is more invested in teaching Mizu. He can't exactly see what Mizu learns from a lesson if he's not allowed to demonstrate what he will do with what he's learned. Thus, regardless of the outcome of his assault, Vergil doesn't seek out another attack on Mizu immediately. If he ends up on the ground, Vergil won't offer a hand to avoid insult or misinterpretation, but he gives Mizu the space to get up again. If he stumbles, Vergil lets him regain his footing without further interference. If he manages to avoid it altogether, Vergil lets Mizu close the gap again with his next attempt.
It doesn't matter that it doesn't work. Mizu's excited about the fight regardless. The cleared space provides less of an environment to use against Vergil. No matter. There's little time to think about it as Vergil mirrors her attacks. The blows have to be guided away and avoided so that his own strength becomes her advantage, not something to stop by force. She'd wind up bruised and beaten quickly in that case. That part goes well. Well enough. Mizu's going for survival, for giving her best against Vergil while at a disadvantage, not to be sung praises by some dojo master.
The kick doesn't surprise her. She tried the same thing. However, the close fighting means she cannot easily avoid the kick altogether. Without time to think about it, sure Vergil is used to any and all responses to it, Mizu feels it connect, feels herself slide a couple inches across the floor, and rolls with the direction of the force. Down to the floor and, not being followed there by any additional attacks, back up again. Her eyes narrow at the purposeful way Vergil gives her time, but he can do what he wants. She won't be the sore fool who hates something simply because he's the weaker opponent, in strength, in experience, or in training.
The trouble with some of the kicks or slides, on her side, is that her strength isn't enough to bring him down. It would be best to injure or immobilize one of his limbs. Her attacks this time aim toward his joints. The inside of his elbow. His knee. Moves that if hit right could shatter them. Her expectations aren't high, but she commits to the moves nonetheless.
If Mizu were to strike true and with enough force, Vergil's body would mend itself too quickly to give Mizu an advantage for long. Thus, he could just take the hit and quickly recover, but Vergil would rather not. For one, it's not as though Vergil's tolerance for pain is so high that he wouldn't feel it at all. For another, any opponent Mizu faced off with wouldn't exactly allow him to do something like that. Their bodies wouldn't heal like Vergil's and it wouldn't be a simple training spar between them. An attack like that would be potentially a finisher in those circumstances. So, Mizu commits to the attempt at immobilizing one or more of his limbs, but Vergil remains a difficult target. When he's not adopting more defensive stancesβsuch as drawing his arms close to his torso with elbows bent at times to prevent accessβhe's also quick to shuffle back so that attempts at his knees land elsewhere on his leg.
Eventually, it's during one of these attempts that Vergil forces the kick to connect with his thigh and before Mizu can retract his leg he grabs Mizu's calf. He could maintain a vice grip on Mizu's leg at that point if he really wanted, leaving Mizu with few options for trying to wriggle free. He could also simply sweep Mizu's remaining foot and send him to the floor immediately. But neither of those are the plan. Instead, Vergil aims a cross jab for Mizu's jaw as he pulls on Mizu's leg, drawing him closer and into the punch. Shortly thereafter, Vergil tosses Mizu's leg aside, forcing a continued downward momentum on him. Vergil fists a hand in Mizu's hair and the other at the scruff of his kimono to pull him further in that direction before slamming his knee up towards Mizu's solar plexus with more than enough force to wind Mizu. If the strike connects, Vergil releases Mizu and allows him the space to catch his breath. If not, Vergil follows with a kick that is meant to push Mizu back regardless of connection or not.
"You're thinking too much like a swordsman," he says, the statement a neutral observation rather than some form of condescension or otherwise negative evaluation. Vergil didn't exactly anticipate Mizu to approach this fight any different than he would crossing blades with someone else. He continues, "Steel equalizes. It doesn't care about my size or my strength. I bleed the same as you."
Vergil doesn't spell it out further than that for Mizu, trusting that he at least understand the point that unrelenting attacks aren't going to serve him well in this. When it's a clashing of blades, reclaiming the offense has to be done with extreme care. A poorly timed or executed attempt is how one might find themselves run through and the fight over for a less durable opponent than Vergil. But in a fight like this where Vergil is larger and stronger, he can easily weather a strike and respond with a ferocious counter of his own. In the end, constantly strike at Vergil creates vulnerabilities that Vergil can and already has taken advantage of to strike back without too much concern. Provided that Mizu understands this, it's up to him what he does with that information as far as Vergil is concerned.
Mizu growls even as she accepts the reality of how much leverage Vergil's hold on her calf gives him. She doesn't fight the grip, all too aware how strong it is and simmering controlled rage. She takes the hit to her jaw but twists and regains her balance enough, even as it pulls at her hair and her kimono, to avoid the knee. They separate, when she would rather tackle Vergil to the floor and pull him against her with an arm around his neck until he passed out. She breathes hard and stares as intently at him.
She's been in hand to hand combat before, usually with stronger men than she even if they aren't as strong as Vergil, but they too have been swordsmen and think like them. She's gotten the better of them. Vergil is better, not relying solely on his strength or his healing to get his way, though he used that strength to an irritating point with beautiful technique just now. It could have come earlier. It could come any time.
Mizu wipes one hand across her face and pulls her kimono into place. Oh, she doesn't need to be tidy, but she doesn't want to reveal the bandages across her chest. Vergil might not take its meaning correctly. Instead he could stop the fight because he thinks she's still healing, but in time, if it comes up enough times, he might figure it out. Let him think she cares about her appearance, as she considers how best to attack him.
Her posture returns to a relaxed and ready position. Mizu stares at and into Vergil with the same intensity as the start of a duel. Move and counterattack predicted. An adjustment in her stance. Again. And again. And again. It plays out far more times in her head than between them. Generally not in her favor. To a fault, once fighting, Mizu is not content to sit back and let her opponent come to her. However, she manages to mentally reset. The start of a new fight. Her hands itch for a blade, a wire, something, but she refuses the idea that she must have one of those to defeat Vergil. It's possible to defeat him, even if she does not manage it today. Not that Mizu's given up. Far from it, the desire to defeat Vergil thrums through her with each beat of her heart.
Mizu attacks with the intention of using his reactions or attacks to move behind him and strangle him. It would go too far to try to break his neck.
Vergil thinks little of Mizu's decision to readjust his kimono. He assumes it's something idle to do while he takes a moment to reset and reassess his options for approach. Vergil remains in his stance, waiting until Mizu is ready to strike. In some ways, Vergil isn't surprised to see the fire return to Mizu's eyes. He's had enough attempts at trying to bring Vergil down or gain the upper hand at the very least, and he's made very little progress. To the half-devil, it's training. It doesn't carry the same intensity as a proper match between them. But Mizu has something to prove to himself, and he clearly won't be satisfied until he has a taste of success.
He has a moment of it at the very least. Vergil continues to block or slap aside Mizu's attacks, occasionally returning with jabs and kicks of his own when he spies the potential opening. He's pleased to see these are not left unanswered. Mizu is just as aggressive as before, but it appears he's finally understood where he could potentially best someone of a greater size and strength than him. Vergil doesn't let Mizu get a hold on his neck. Opponents Mizu would would face would never allow it to happen and Vergil hardly wants to patronize anyway. But in the absence of his trickery with teleportationβwhich he is notably not using while they spar like thisβthere is only so far and so long he can go before Mizu is able to latch on and he's forced to tuck his chin before making a quick decision.
Vergil could wrench Mizu's arm off not just from around his neck, but clean out of whichever joint or socket Vergil preferred to take it from. However, considering he's not even so much as willing to break one of Mizu's limbs given how much it would delay their next sparring match, Vergil opts not to utilize such brute strength to free himself. Besides, anyone else Mizu might grapple with like this won't have that kind of strength. It would do little good to unleash that sort of strength on him now when his skills are still developing. There can be another time for that as there could be for the use of any of his other skills and abilities.
Thus, the primary issue to address is their distance to one another. Mizu is just short enough relative to Vergil that with the right application of strength, angle, and/or sweep, he could pull Vergil down to the floor. Or Mizu could simply hop straight onto Vergil's back. Either way, it puts Vergil at a disadvantage for escaping when not using brute strength to free himself as it's distance that he needs and either leaves him without it.
With few options, once Mizu has latched on, Vergil quickly strikes behind himself at Mizu with a sharp kick to his groin. It's not a precise kick given their angle to one another and he's more than willing to kick several times if that's what it takes, but hitting the mark isn't the point. The point is that if it connects, it's enough force to knock Mizu back. If it doesn't, it should force Mizu to naturally step back (albeit not for the reasons Vergil assumes Mizu would want to protect that area). Either way, it forces a loosening of the hold on Vergil's neck and provides him with the opportunity to slip free. Vergil's hand is like a vice against Mizu's wrist as he slips out. He's quick to twist that arm behind Mizu's back and draw Mizu in close against him where striking will be far more difficult, the motion so fluid that to an outside observer it'd look more akin to a dance than fight.
It is only the first time Mizu accomplishes her goal to wrap her arm around Vergil's neck and squeeze tightly in a properly held position to make him lose consciousness if he stays there too long, not that Mizu expects them to simply stand there together until he goes down. Everyone fights it. She's fought it before herself. Mizu adjusts her position to sweep Vergil to the floor when his kick comes.
Fuck.
Mizu leaps backward to avoid the kick, dragging Vergil's head with her, because more than any man, she cannot afford to let that kick land. Her move is interrupted, and Vergil gets exactly what he wantsβa way out. His large hands and his powerful strength means Mizu, however, does not. Were she in fear for her life, Mizu could break her wrist or her arm to get out, but that doesn't serve her here. Besides, it's hardly the first time she's been held in this sort of position. There's other moves first, even if some of them would earn Vergil's disapproval. For some reason, in the moment, Mizu cares about that. Stupid really.
"Not only you."
Despite being shorter than him, she bashes her head backward toward his and in a minor fit of spite kicks toward his groin. Either he'll evade it or feel enough pain to distract him long enough. Mizu's quick to learn other people's moves, not that kicking a man in the groin has remained miraculously undiscovered until this date, and uses the chance to each over herself to grab whatever she can grabβjacket, ear, hair, it doesn't matterβand moves into a roll aimed to take him with her, death grip on her arm and all. She can use him as cushioning to land, should it go well, and in so doing perhaps loosen that grip a little bit. Whether she accomplishes it or not, she adjusts her position based off his, to accommodate and bring it with her.
Sometimes Mizu thinks she might need to stuff an explosive in his neck to kill him, but no that probably wouldn't do the trick either.
Vergil jerks his head back when Mizu attempts to headbutt him. It leaves him just distracted enough that the first kick manages to land. While there is no version of a kick to the groin that would ever feel comfortable, their proximity prevents too much power from being built up into that kick that he doesn't drop immediately and is able to keep enough of his wits about him to twist his hips in such a way that subsequent kicks land on his hip and upper thigh. The less painful way would be to simply evade the follow up kicks, but Vergil doesn't want to relent the space between them if he can help it. Thus, the most he can do is grunt and endure. But it may have been the wiser choice to relent the space in the end. Mizu's fingers twist in Vergil's hair, pulling at his scalp just a moment before Mizu sends them both tumbling to the floor.
The weight of them both going down to the floor so abruptly causes a few things around Vergil's apartment to rattle slightly. But nothing falls from its place. Not yet, in any case. It's not as though the pair of them are simply still after their fall. Mizu starts to adjust his position atop Vergil.
Last time Vergil found himself on his back beneath Mizu, it had been a surprise. There had been no real time to think as they went from swordplay to grappling in an instant, and Mizu became more immediately erratic. But this time, he's a little more prepared. Still hard any time to think, but prepared to find himself in this position. He still has a firm hold on Mizu's wrist between them even if the angle is a touch more awkward now. It gives him a leverage point, however, and he pushes up on Mizu to sidle out from beneath him and attempt to flip Mizu over onto his stomach. Regardless of whether or not that's how Mizu ends up on the floor, they're soon a tangle of limbs as Vergil looks to pin Mizu to the floor and Mizu undoubtedly fights back. But it's here where Vergil's size and weight become much more of a problem rather than when they were standing and exchanging strikes. Vergil isn't shy about pressing himself into Mizu to start wresting control over their position over further and further into his control, and he doesn't intend on relenting until he has a firm hold on Mizu regardless of whatever tactics the other intends to use.
It probably says something poor about Mizu's experiences that she has wound up on the floor or ground grappling with someone multiple times before and all of them with bigger men than she. Vergil maintains that annoying grasp on her wrist that limits some of her movements. She breathes heavily and works her way through various attempts at positions, thwarted time and again. No time for frustration besides the energy to keep going. At one point, Mizu gets mostly behind Vergil, but she doesn't succeed in completing a position to force Vergil to lose before it shifts again. He's attached to her as well as her attached to him, but Mizu pays the bigger penalty for it.
Even so, Mizu never simply gives in, not easily, same as she does not fight as dirty as she would were she honestly fighting for her life. It isn't even the most she's been crushed, Vergil not weighing more than a door with many men atop it crushing her into the ground. Only when Mizu cannot move in any meaningful way does she let out a huff.
"I get it. You have an advantage on the floor."
He's more challenging than her opponents in the past, Mizu already knew that, and she exercised some restraint as well. Some might call it civility, but she's rarely had reason to use it. Vergil... may be the first. Mizu isn't used to it at any rate, nor of grappling with someone better at it than she is. Yet another failing and flawed approach on her part. Vergil is aggravating but not because he's an ass. He's been anything but. The faults lie with her, and Vergil's showcased that unpleasantly well.
The trouble is she doesn't know what kind of fighters her remaining two possible fathers are. Fowler was large and strong and experienced. Vicious. Yet he called himself one of the less terrifying of the men she seeks. An easier target.
Vergil relents once Mizu recognizes he's not getting out from Vergil's hold. Not without fighting with more intensity than is warranted for here and now. But even as there's a bit of smile and lighter expression on his face, he doesn't mock Mizu for his frustrations nor for ultimately having to concede.
"I'm sure you do." Vergil says as he sits back to give Mizu the space to sit up himself, bringing one of his knees closer and resting his elbow on it and holding that wrist loosely with his opposite hand. If it wasn't for how heavily Mizu is breathing now and even Vergil showing a slight amount of being winded after how much Mizu tried to free himself, anyone looking at them would likely think they just made the odd decision to sit in the middle of Vergil's floor to converse. "But I think that's enough for now. Exhaust yourself too much and you'll end up straying from what technique you've started to develop out of frustration. Better that you maintain your discipline than push beyond your limits today."
Vergil considers it for a moment before he looks away and pushes himself back up to his feet.
"You did well."
It might not have been enough to beat Vergil. His technique, size, and strength all were strong factors in the outcome of their sparring today, and he wouldn't downplay that. But neither would it do well to downplay how much growth Mizu demonstrated in a singular sparring in hand-to-hand. He was adaptive and thoughtful about each of his approaches even if they didn't turn out the results he would have liked. He began with his foundations as a swordsman, but he didn't allow that to limit him. Instead, even as much as it might have frustrated and pissed him off in the moment, he took Vergil's feedback both in his physical actions and words, and did something with it.
So, he didn't win and he might have the right to be dissatisfied with that, but victory was hardly the sole metric to be found here today.
He thinks to offer a hand to Mizu to help him to his feet, but opts instead to begin undoing the wrappings around his hands instead and let Mizu get to his feet on his own.
Mizu sits immediately in a smooth movement. As Vergil remains stiting for a moment, Mizu does as well. Her breathing returns more toward normal, now she's no longer squirming like a greased pig. Her head snaps toward Vergil when he rejects the idea of going again. She isn't so far gone she'll forget what she's learned. She can do better at keeping him in a headlock, now she has one more defense to anticipate. The urge to belabor the point rises, but Mizu bites it back. No doubt Vergil would be as much a solid wall denying her no matter what she said. No point wasting the words.
To be fair, she didn't expect any form of sparring when she stopped by today, and she wasn't injured. They'll spar again soon. Mizu's come out ahead.
"I'll do better," Mizu promises as she stands, still light on her feet. Her energy has only increased from this exercise. She'll practice the moves on her own time in her own space, both hers and some of the ones she saw him use. If it weren't for Vergil, Mizu would spend practically no time injured at all in Folkmore (so far), and that would be a far stranger feeling.
So she undoes the wraps, mindful of Vergil though there's no more promise of sparring. His apartment hardly competes for her attention, sparse as it is.
"Why are you so good at hand to hand combat?" The question betrays her bias. He's a strong swordsman, and he has all that devil stuff, of which Mizu's certain she hasn't seen the half of. With all that, how did he also become so good at this form of combat? Why did he bother? How is he so damn good at all of it? Necessity, she knows, must be part of the answer, but it's hard to fathom him having a difficult time with... most combat.
Mizu promises to do better next time and Vergil spares him a glance at that. It's not doubt in Vergil's eyes, but perhaps a bit of hope that he will make good on that. Even if it's not right away. But who knows? Next time, Mizu might be able to get further than he did today.
"When one has as obnoxious of a little brother as I do, you learn at quite an early age how to beat the hell out of someone with your fists alone," Vergil says, the answer coming perhaps more naturally and smoothly than anything he's ever said to Mizu. But there's a pause as he's unwrapping one of his hands that he realizes he's never made mention of his brother until now. It's not been anything that he's intentionally hidden necessarily, but Dante has never come up in conversation before now. And why should he? Vergil may (sometimes begrudgingly) miss him, but that's not exactly business for anyone else to know. And no one would exactly think to ask him if he has any siblings anyway. He finishes with unwrapping his hand and begins to roll the wrappings together, seemingly quite focused on the task for a moment. "You would think there might be more peace between twins since our age difference isn't in years, but Dante has a way of always causing a ruckus wherever he goes and he was often close behind me as children."
And as adults, too. Just never close enough because Vergil never allowed it. He swallows back that regret and replaces the wrappings back to their appropriate spot within his training area. Vergil opts to brush past the revelation of a twin brother and anything that might come with it to provide the other half of the answer to Mizu's question.
"There isn't a weapon I cannot master, however. It is something I inherited from my father," he continues as he steps over to the portion of his studio apartment that serves as his sleeping area once more. This time, he collects the amulet from the nightstand, unclasping the golden chain to put it back on. No doubt the thing doesn't look like something Vergil would ever choose for himself, both stone and chain being far warmer than his usual cool tones with red and gold. "As it so happens, I acquired a devil arm for a time that enhanced my hand-to-hand while it was still in my possession, and I do what I can to maintain those skills without it."
Vergil steps over to his wardrobe for a shirt and pulls it on. He doesn't put the necklace above the shirt, keeping it tucked away.
Though Mizu never had a sibling, she saw the village boys play together, and it was much the same. If she stayed living on the streets and wasn't killed, she likely would have gained the same skills. Fought even more with Taigen and the boys who surrounded him. Perhaps she'd be that kind of fighter instead of a swordsman, hopefully one with better technique than pure brawling. Mizu usually doesn't look back at her life and wonder about those differences, focused as she is on the future and moving forward. In the end, it doesn't matter. She is who she is now and lived the life she has.
There is more to Vergil and his twin Dante. Mizu has little context as to what, knowing only the few words Vergil says here about his brother. However, all that is overshadowed by what Vergil says next. Mizu straightens and stares at Vergil hard. The wraps in her hand are forgotten next to some inherited ability to master weapons, compared to whatever a devil arm is improving his hand-to-hand skills, so that he only has to maintain those abilities, not master them in the first place.
"You cheat," Mizu declares, half-shocked half-irritated all to hell. As though Vergil doesn't have enough advantages over her, but he doesn't have to try anywhere near as hard as a normal person, as Mizu, to learn the skills in the first place? Yes, the urge to barrel into him and grapple yet again is there, but Mizu knows that will not (likely) end well for her. Vergil already said they were done, and he's dressed again in an unusual amulet and shirt, all committed to that fact.
That's not fair, Mizu doesn't say. It only increases her desire to beat him, to knock him unconscious by learning to get better the hard way, the long way. Though it is frustrating how much that gets slowed down by being injured. She's always dealt with injuries, but it slows things down. Mizu only has so much time in Folkmore. The thought of leaving without defeating Vergil burns something within her. She will manage it through her own blood and sweat and effort. She rolls the wrappings together messily as that gains far more of her attention. No that isn't how he started, with a brother, but it's part of how he's gotten to where he is now.
They are only two words, but they feel akin to a slap in the face all the same. Vergil has never made it a secret that his demonic heritage provides him with a number of advantages over that of a human. In fact, he wears it as a point of pride to have been born a son of Sparda. And just as he hasn't feigned ignorance to his advantages, he's never felt the nature or spoken of his birth as though it was something he earned. Vergil isn't a fool. He knows that boils down to luck of the draw. He had no more control over that than he would over something like the weather. But if it were all a matter of his birth, if it was all down to luck and inheritance, and there had been nothing Vergil earned...
His mother wouldn't have died that day. He wouldn't have lost Dante and struggled to accept him again. He wouldn't have been absent for the entirety of Nero's life. He wouldn't have spent a decade as a slave to his father's enemy and his mother's murderer, and a little over a decade more in the demon realm with his crumbling flesh. He wouldn't have been forced and reduced to so little that he was a mere shell of himself or sometimes, at best, just barely surviving. There would have never been any struggle even once in his life if it were all down to that because why would such privilege allow for anything like that to happen? He would never have been so weak as to lose anyone that he loved, to have himself rent from him so violently, or to have known that bitter taste of defeat after defeat.
But even within the reality that his birth was not enough to prevent the violence and pain that's made up the fabric of Vergil's life: he would not have survived any of it if it was solely down to that alone. That much is certain. It was not his birth that caused Vergil to survive. It was him. His motivation and will to not just live but never to know weakness or helplessness, as he had before, developed his skills beyond mere technical ability, and into something that made him a formidable opponent to all that would oppose him. How else could he have pressed forward as he felt his life fading from his body, hardly able to walk or stand upright any longer?
Mizu knows little of any of it, of course. He's only been told of the helplessness that Vergil felt the day his mother died, and what a driving force that had been for him the rest of his life. And he's now seen firsthand what Vergil can do with and without a blade in his hands, the way he can read and respond to the flow of battle as naturally as he is able to draw breath. But what little Mizu knows doesn't matter to Vergil in the moment as he feels the dismissal of all that he is being boiled down to luck and something more akin to a cheap trick or tactic with just two words.
Vergil firmly slides his wardrobe door shut once more. He stands there a moment, his jaw tensing slightly and relaxing once more before he decides against it. He's learned to walk with his nightmares and his failures, accept them as part of himself. But he's far from comfortable with the notion of acknowledging them to someone else. Not even in his own defense. He simply shouldn't have to defend himself. His own merit and skill and continued existence should speak for itself.
It also shouldn't bother him that Mizu's opinion of his skills may be undermined by his nature as a half-devil. What's the opinion of a human who hardly knows anything about him? All the more reason not to defend himself against what feels an accusation. But it does. Bother him. There's no reason why Vergil should even bother sparring with someone like Mizu. What difference does it make to him if he has the skills enough to survive his quest for revenge? He owes Mizu absolutely nothing, and a human arguably has no business crossing blades with someone like Vergil. But Vergil has taken that time. He's found reward in it. He's found someone that he...respects. That he admires the drive and determination of, and the strength there is to be found in refusing to give up simply because the odds are stacked against him.
And that same person says that he cheats to have his skill.
Vergil wants it to not matter. To reduce Mizu down to what he is as he just did to Vergil. But it matters and he can't bring himself to truly do the same.
"If you wish to think of it that way, so be it."
Any semblance of the ease to which he spoke of Dante or offered his explanation has evaporated, but he doesn't sound angry or terse. He's noticeably withdrawing, not lashing out. So, Vergil is merely to the point and concise, firmly declaring that it doesn't matter as he rejoins Mizu. He nods to the wrappings messily rolled in Mizu's hands.
"Keep them. For your own practice or however else you see fit to use them."
Mizu knows nothing about why Vergil reacts the way he does. No one likes to be called a cheat. At a later time, Mizu may reflect on it further and wonder what's behind that reaction, but that kind of reaction is also what she expects from people. Say the wrong thing, and they pull back. They leave. Mizu would not be surprised if Vergil refused to spar with her any further for saying such a thing, for it to be a line she shouldn't have crossed, true as it is. Except it is not as though Vergil will walk away in his own home. It would be infinitely awkward if he did.
Instead Mizu moves to gather her things. She glances down at the wraps, unused to protecting herself during practice but acknowledging it's likely for the best. Mizu stands there awkwardly, as though she doesn't belong and shouldn't be there, even as Vergil continues to talk evenly and calmly. It's not the kind of situation where Mizu leans on manners, not after being that rude. So she nods, muttering "okay," and adds them to the set of tools Vergil gave her. That itself makes her feel further uncomfortable. He didn't have to do that. Mizu didn't expect it. Honestly, he doesn't entirely make sense to her. It's so much easier when they're sparring than the bits of conversation. Mizu admits she might be escalating this moment, but it rings true to other moments, so she isn't certain.
"It's only a couple days," more like three but Mizu always underestimates it, "until I'm completely healed. Only a couple after that before I've remade what I need for the naginata."
Vergil silently watches Mizu as he gathers his things. He wasn't exactly trying to kick Mizu out of his apartment, but there's an undeniable shift now that they are no longer sparring. That in of itself is not odd considering it's what happened the first time as well, but this bit of clumsiness between them doesn't sit the same with Vergil. He can't imagine it does for Mizu either.
The other swordsman provides his proposed timeline and Vergil considers it. Or more accurately, his gaze drops to Mizu's side that took the brunt of Vergil's attack. Without laying eyes on the wound itself, there's no telling if Mizu's estimate is accurate. And that's assuming Vergil even has a decent enough sense of how long a wound like that would take to heal on a human without any sort of acceleration which he frankly doubts he possesses. But it seems a fair estimation to Vergil all the same. His movements today didn't seem particularly inhibited by his wound.
"Four days then," Vergil says, lifting his eyes to meet Mizu's again with a slight nod. "Whether you're ready for me or not, I'll find you again."
And if he's not ready, then that's on Mizu to figure out and entirely his fault for putting himself in that position. Vergil doesn't think Mizu would inherently disagree with that either. He probably wouldn't have even argued with Vergil about sparring again if Vergil hadn't been so adamant that he wanted Mizu completely healed first. With Mizu seemingly intent on leaving, Vergil walks to the door to politely open it for him.
"And as far as keeping score is concerned, today doesn't count." It was a training session. Not a real contest. A chance for Vergil to practice and for Mizu to learn. "Next time I see you, I won't hold back as much as I did today. And I won't relent until I've claimed my victory."
He won't allow his skills to be called into question again by the end of it.
It will be a busy four days, but that suits Mizu fine. She can handle the time away from the library and the books that have become so much of her life. It will do her good to forge her equipment for herself and to focus solely on doing that while she does so. She'll make sure to be complete and ready by the time Vergil finds her. If not, that's on her. She gave the timeline, so it's hardly a surprise to be attacked, no matter where he finds her.
It's a promise that they will carry on, and that proving true, for next time and the time after that, is far more important than anything else. Mizu will not have the chance to improve enough to beat him unless they keep going. Her step is a little lighter at his words. It's what she wants.
"We'll see about that," Mizu says. As much as she knows how it will likely go, she refuses to accept defeat before it comes. That only guarantees it. "I'll be ready."
And that's that. Almost none of their interaction what she expected that day, some better, some worse. She leaves for Wintermute where the chill will center her. Mizu can always think better there.
Either 5/6 or 5/13 because the week between doesn't exist
They fight in a variety of locations, wherever Vergil finds Mizu or Mizu finds Vergil when it's an acceptable time (by Vergil's terms, he's always been the one who insists she heals fully). While calling it 'more even' might be a stretch too far, it's less one sided than the time before. Yet she hasn't had the time to improve as much as she needs to to really beat him as cleanly into the ground. One of his attacks hit and send Mizu skidding back across the cobbled street in Epiphany. Her femur doesn't break, but Mizu limps a step or two.
Then she throws up a hand to pause the fight. "Wait. Give me a few moments."
Mizu sheaths her sword, sits on the street cross-legged despite the fact that makes her want to whimper, and focuses her breathing into something approaching meditation. It is difficult with Vergil there and clearly intent on her, but Mizu has only practiced this new ability on minor injuries not worth healing save to verify that the ability exists. Her mind stills, and she imagines her leg whole and hale. A refreshing coolness passes through her, and she knows she is healed. Not only her leg, what she intended, but everything, every little thing.
Only then does she open her eyes and pay Vergil any mind. "What?" Mizu asks, fairly certain he said something.
It's not what Vergil said. Even Mizu is liable to recognize that even without having fully attended to what Vergil said given the distinct lack of additional words.
Just before Mizu signaled to Vergil to pause their sparring with one another, Vergil had been on the fast approach. Even with the significant differences in their strength, he knows that if given an inch, Mizu will take a mile. Not following up a clean strike with more to keep Mizu on the move is a surefire way to ensure the other swordsman can take the lead on their fight. But Mizu threw up a hand and asked for Vergil to stop for the moment. So, Vergil came to a halt as quickly as he could, dropping his blade from his intended strike to something less offensive and regarded Mizu warily as Mizu sheathed his blade.
Vergil wouldn't necessarily acknowledge the reason for the furrow in his brow to be one of concern, but Mizu refuses to yield while he remains conscious never mind asking for a break. It merited asking if something was wrong. When there was no response to his question, Vergil placed Mirage Edge on his back and further closed the distance between them to stand before Mizu as the other swordsman seemingly sat there. Vergil canted his head slightly as the scent of blood on the air lessened and the little signs of injury that he could see with even just a cursory look at Mizu dissipated. He's tempted to get a closer look to be sure this isn't some sort of trick, but he remains rooted to the spot where he stands instead and provides his single word response.
"Not exactly a useful in the heat of battle," he says less as a criticism and more trying to puzzle out the reason for it. Mizu always seemed more driven to push his skill and talents based on his natural power. Perhaps even pushing beyond that with how Vergil has had to be so firm with the rule that Mizu must be more or less fully recovered before they spar again after each fight. Vergil's eyes narrow slightly as he scrutinizes Mizu a bit further. His gaze is sharp enough that it wouldn't be out of the question to feel like he was already puzzling out the answer to his questions already by staring into some part of Mizu where said answer lies. He's not a mind reader though, and he ends up asking bluntly. "You haven't expressed interest in power like this before. Why?"
Strange as it is to be fully healed, when only moments before it hurt to sit in this position, Mizu stands back up and stretches, testing her leg. It feels good. No pain whatsoever. The ability that Thirteen said her Lore summoned works. It works when it's not so bad an injury that Mizu goes unconscious or is in an even worse state, such as it may be. That means it will work then, so long as she can gather herself together enough to do so. It brings a smile to her face.
"No, it's not useful in battle," Mizu agrees. She supposes like any skill it might be improved with training and experience. That will come in time. However, she did not gain the ability in order to use it in the heat of battle. She doesn't want to beat Vergil because she has this ability. That would be cheap and meaningless to her. It won't do anything for her at home, for her when she leaves this place or so she assumes. She must be ready for the conditions under which she can seek her revenge. The same way she is receiving training for combat without weapons, she must improve her skills at combat without abilities.
She sighs a little and shrugs, as though it's no important matter. "I grew tired of waiting so long between our bouts," Mizu says, "We have no guarantee of how long we will be here. I need to improve as much as possible in the time I am here."
Being injured itself doesn't bother her, certainly not enough to ask Thirteen for an ability around it. Mizu's been injured in a myriad of ways more times than she can count. She would fight Vergil injured if he let her. She needs to improve at fighting while injured. Starting injured. She gets plenty of experience fighting him with injuries sustained during their sparring. Certainly, if he enjoys it half as much as she does, Vergil would want to fight more frequently. It's possible someone else here can heal her as quickly and as easily, but what that entails, even if it is only asking someone else for help, is less desirable to Mizu than handling it herself.
Some might readily express their pleasure upon hearing this. After all, acknowledging that one enjoys their matches as much as the other isn't exactly some sort of surprising revelation. Why else would they continue to happen if there wasn't some enjoyment to be found in it? That isn't Vergil's way, however. Especially not when faced with as much pragmatism as there is to be found in the decision to acquire a healing ability like this one and the reason behind Mizu even engaging in fights with Vergil in the first place. So, as Vergil muddles over the relevance of his own personal feelings that go beyond the pragmatic reasons, he stands there in a silence that most would likely take as a bit awkward.
Rather than discussing the potential limits of Mizu's new ability and the implications therein, he says, "If you hunger for defeat that greatly, who am I to deny you?"
It's reasonable to question the limits considering even Vergil's abilityβwhich arguably has more utility considering that what would be a fatal injury can prove otherwise instantly and without thoughtβhas its limits. Until they know how frequently Mizu can heal himself and how severe the injuries can be before they outpace the ability, it's best that they keep experimentation with it a bit limited and concentrated. And Vergil doesn't really trust that Mizu is necessarily thinking of his ability in those terms. Not when he's yet to witness a limit to Vergil's own healing ability and with his own hardheadedness to simply throw himself forward in pursuit of his goals as much as possible.
But it made Mizu smile. And regardless of potential limits, there won't be weeks between their sparring any longer. So, Vergil doesn't need to be the voice of reason all the time even if he's maintaining it privately. He doesn't need to take a happy moment when there are likely so few for Mizu, and crush it beneath his heel. He can let it be and just tease Mizu instead. Even if on the surface it doesn't necessarily sound like he's teasing.
Mizu's smile turns into something of a smirk. It does not matter how many times she loses, so long as she stands up again, so long as she can fight again, so long as she can carry on. Fowler beat her the first time, when she was injured from going through his castle. Yet it's not that defeat, that failure, that stays on her mind (though she does not forget it). Nor is it when she was unarmed, being crushed against his armor until ribs broke. Because that was not the end, not real defeat. What matters is his knife in her hand, digging into his neck as she extracts information about the remaining two men. Only one word but what a word.
So losing to Vergil before. Today. Tomorrow. A hundred times. That is not defeat. Those are stepping stones to her victory, to her triumph, not only to her revenge but to getting the better of him. It will happen. Mizu will make it happen, no matter how hard she has to train or how many injuries she must heal. She will defeat him before she returns home and carry that memory with her as well.
Mizu draws her sword and returns to a proper starting position. "You will eat those words," Mizu declares. Her commitment, her focus, everything is on this moment. On winning this time, not that far off someday. Each day, each fight, she believes it's possible. Perhaps not in a fair manner, but Mizu cares nothing for honor. Other men may die with their honor. She'd rather live. Kill.
She springs forward, aggressive and precise and quick. As quick as her slender form allows. A bit quicker than humanly possible, for she is a Myth, but not so much it's obvious, not so much Mizu notices.
Vergil smirks as Mizu readies himself. They are just sparring matches. They are opportunities for Mizu to adapt and learn against an opponent with limits that go beyond his human targets even if the other swordsman hasn't yet tasted the true extent of Vergil's power. But he does as Vergil has always asked and approaches them with the ferocity becoming of a fight to the death, ready to push well past his limits rather than caving to whatever anxieties or doubts would bring others to yield well before.
Vergil had come quite close after Mizu put a pause to their spar to test his new ability. So, the distance is shorter than when they typically begin to clash blades, but Vergil is no less prepared to receive the other swordsman when he surges forward for his attack. He draws Mirage Edge and parries Mizu's strikes. Those that he cannot, he dodges. Mizu is faster than a baseline humanβhis Myth abilities see to thatβbut he's still not quick enough to best Vergil's own natural speed, leaving his blade to strike a false afterimage instead. Eventually, Vergil seeks to put a little distance so that he can reclaim the tempo for himself once again.
On Mizu's next strike, he locks their blades together and twists, driving their blades towards the ground with the intention of wedging Mizu's blade into the loose cobblestone. With his considerable strength, Vergil could leave Mizu without his blade entirely for the remainder of their sparring, but he's not interested in that fight today. Mizu should be able to yank it free with his own strength. He's more interested in creating leverage as he uses Mizu like a springboard, kicking off the other man to both free his blade and try to part Mizu from his own.
Vergil doesn't give Mizu the luxury of recovery time from the sudden foot to his gut, and even if he's not freeing Mizu of his blade for the remainder of the fight doesn't mean that he's simply going to allow the other swordsman to pluck it from the ground without any resistance. Summoned blades appear from above Mizu like a bed of nails, hanging in the air only long enough for them to form before they rain down upon him. Mizu should be familiar enough with them by now to know Vergil's formation of them is tight. Gaps between the blades are present, but the speed at which they fall makes purely dodging into those gaps without cutting a few of the out of the air as they fall near impossible. Being struck by them is also a poor outcome not just for their initial injuries but because they seem to cause whatever they strike to move so slowly they almost appear to come to a standstill. If they strike their target, Mizu is vulnerable to Vergil's follow-up swing of Mirage Edge.
There's no give to Mizu's attacks against Vergil, as he has plenty of advantages that any amount of time provides him the opportunity to use. In this environment, just the two of them, Mizu limits that as she can. As she can being the key word. Mizu growls at Vergil as their blades bend downward. He's not the first to use increased strength against her, and she's not so stubborn as to try to push his sword back up now they've started to go down. No, she needs a freed blade and to have it soon again at hand.
It's not graceful. Mizu moves to fling her sword backward. First, the tip travels between the gap of two stones. Vergil forces the breath out of her chest, and that movement speeds the sword with greater force. It releases from her hand and embeds into the wall of the building behind her. That leaves it stuck farther away from Vergil, but that's not what Mizu meant to do. Nor the first time her sword's gotten stuck somewhere. No time for frustration, however.
Bare handed, Mizu throws herself to the side, rolling and dodging away from the forest of blades. Even the castle she invaded didn't go to the expense of making so many swords and rods come out of the walls and ceilings, but those would have to be made, not summoned at their convenience. Quick to return to a standing position, Mizu blocks the follow up attack with her wrist. The sword slices through her sleeve, but it comes up against solid steel, not muscle and bone, beneath it. Yet Mizu wishes to hold that contest of strength even less than that with swords. She moves past Vergil, running right toward the wall, to spring up it, compress, and shoot back across the alley toward her sword. Which, supposing she gets it, allows her to return to balance and even attack.
It should perhaps be a bit frustrating that Mizu manages to dodge the heavy rain of swords even when it does foil his follow-up enough that his blade bites metal instead of flesh. Especially since it's likely Mizu wouldn't have been quite as capable of doing so if he still possessed a more baseline human speed relative to what he possesses in Folkmore. But it's difficult to feel all that frustrated when it's such a clear reflection of Mizu memorizing Vergil's patterns and retaining his lessons from previous times they've clashed with one another. Being pushed like that is what keeps it fresh for Vergil. Thus, there's no sign of frustration.
Mizu swiftly moves behind Vergil, and the half-demon tracks the other swordsman as he uses the wall to reach his destination. It's the safer option, of course. The alternative would be putting his back to Vergil, and that wouldn't end well for Mizu. Not that there isn't still the opportunity to cut Mizu down out of the air, but Vergil chooses not to go that route. Instead, he offers a minor complication to Mizu's landing.
As Mizu speeds toward his sword, Vergil reverses his grip on Mirage Edge. He slashes the air twice in rapid succession. Two vertical bands of energy emerge that would form an X if perfectly overlayed with one another, following the arc of Mirage Edge's strikes out forward and far beyond Vergil's reach. They travel significantly faster than the horizontal band that Vergil needs time to form, making them likewise significantly faster than Mizu in the air. But the point isn't for them to land upon the swordsman's person so much as to create some impediment to cleanly grabbing his blade. Thus, they tear at the cobblestone beneath, launching rock, earth, and gravel as they cut through the ground and eventually scar the wall beside Mizu's sword rather than on the blade itself. (The last thing Vergil needs or wants to do, after all, is break Mizu's blade and put an end to their contest so soon.) It's nothing that should truly hinder Mizu from collecting his blade, but there may be a few bumps and bruises for his troubles. With a skillful twirl of the blade in his hand, Vergil changes his grip back to normal.
Drawing back for a moment, Vergil meets Mizu's attack with a thrust of his own. In doing so, he covers the several feet of distance between them easily with the single motion rather than any steps. There's enough momentum behind it that regardless of whether Mirage Edge buries itself in Mizu or simply collides with Mizu's blade, the pair of them will likely find themselves moving in that same direction upon contact for a little while longer. Even with Mizu putting up resistance, there's little slowing Vergil's momentum, and Mizu may find it slightly disorienting with Vergil moving both of them at seemingly the same speed as his teleports as it's not just Vergil's afterimage that trails behind them. Which really was the point more than hoping for injury. His follow-up strike is with the intention of sending Mizu into the air. But rather than following Mizu up there himself if he's successful, Vergil will instead wind up and hurl Mirage Edge after him, the blade spinning like a potentially deadly top.
Mizu grits her teeth and bears the mild assault Vergil flings up toward regaining her sword. A small measure in a battle that can become a one-sided measure of attrition. That's as much of her own doing as Vergil's however, so Mizu accepts the her bumps with appreciation for the fact it's the kind of issue she's addressed again and again. It will continue to happen, so it's good not to lose practice facing someone as... fancy as Vergil.
It's one of those moments where time seems to slow, except time slowing doesn't even return their movements to a normal human speed. Mizu sets aside that issue as the facts of the matter. It shouldn't be surprising, and Mizu trusts instead that the sense of danger comes from something more than the reminder Vergil can move (them) very quickly. Her eyes run over her surroundings, and Mizu spots a chimney rising out of the opposite building. Her hand reaches inside to pull on a supply of thin solid rope that is part of her expanded inventory thanks to Thirteen's sense of whimsy. It also benefits her here.
The strike sends her upward, and Mizu throws the looped end of the rope across toward the chimney. It reaches it, barely large enough, and threatens to come back off. By that time, Mirage Edge whirls toward her, and Mizu sacrifices precious time to let the rope settle before jerking it to pull herself partly out of the way of the blade. There's little time to consider. Mizu curls up her body and holds her sword at a defensive angle. The sword scrapes against hers, and the power behind it reverberates up her arm. It continues to spin. The next spin it hits steel wrapped around her ankle. The third hits the bottom of her shoe, slicing through it and into her foot.
Mizu slams against the roof and forces herself into a standing position. Even if she could heal herself quickly then and there, she wouldn't. Blood stains the roof below her foot, and Mizu motions for Vergil to follow her. Come along. It's warmer than Mizu would prefer, but she ignores that, centers herself, and attacks Vergil the moment he comes up.
Vergil watches Mirage Edge carefully to see if it finds any purchase on Mizu. Sparks fly as their blades meet and the same cacophonous crash happens again when it digs into Mizu's ankle. It's the bottom of his foot where it finally strikes and the scent of blood mingles back into the air. Vergil extends his hand as Mizu lands on the roof and Mirage Edge ceases its circling in the air immediately. It pivots and flies towards Vergil at such speed and an angle that Mizu could be forgiven for thinking it may very well skewer Vergil. But similar to his control over the smaller blades, Vergil brings the blade up just in time for him to have a firm grasp on it once again. He waits a moment, expecting Mizu to take advantage of the height he has over Vergil now to launch another attack. Mizu surprises him, however. He doesn't seem to want to chance landing on his foot so soon. It's the wiser choice, but it's not like Mizu to give Vergil any time whatsoever. They both know better than to give the other the opportunity. Then the invitation to come to the roof. So, that's the play...
It's not just Vergil that lands on the roof. He leaps into the air higher than any man could on his own before jumping off the wall to give himself the additional height. It's enough to clear the buildingβit only a modest two-storey buildingβbut he doesn't come to land down on the tiles just yet. Vergil teleports himself even higher and further out of reach, hanging in the air a moment before his clone manifests with a movement of his arm. With a nod of his head, Vergil sends the clone ahead of himself. The demonic spectre races forward, drawing its blade for an overhead attack to meet Mizu while Vergil safely lands on the roof.
It's two against one, but Vergil isn't a fool. He knows he won't win by numbers alone with Mizu. The swordsman has previous expertly handled contending with twin attacks from both Vergil and his doppelganger even if the spectral version of Vergil has come at his behest rather than Mizu's victory over it. And he wouldn't expect anything different. Even if Mizu were more dissimilar when it comes to his solitude during a fight, he is always mindful of his environment and that includes the presence of others.
Once again, Vergil surges forward with his blade. This time when he finds Mizu, he stabs rapidly again and again and again and again while his clone maintains the more practiced forms of cuts and slashes. If he was attacking in a more lethal manner, Vergil would be even faster with his stabs. It would likely be hundreds of wounds before Mizu could finish drawing and releasing a steady breath. But he holds himself back enough that Mizu still has a shot at defending himself from Vergil's attacks while not making it a guarantee with his attention needing to be split between two half-demon.
It is true to how they fight. The invitation gives Vergil the opportunity to set some of the tenor of this next stage of their engagement. The copy as predictable as Vergil's ability to leap far higher than this building all on his own. Mizu engages the ghostly version of Vergil while still keeping an eye on the original, the greater danger that. With practiced ease and habit, Mizu lengthens her sword into a naginata. Two opponents in most other circumstances would not call for it, but Vergil is a dangerous enough opponent that Mizu uses it to create more space around her and balance the two.
Based off the attacks they make, Mizu uses her weapon to force greater distance between her and the distraction. Were it only a guarantee she could steal Vergil's blade from him by anchoring it in her body, she would. However, that sword is no regular sword, and even should he lose his grip on it, he could call it back to himself and leave her with dreadful bleeding, worse than that coming from her foot, for the foolish move. Equally, buying space from Vergil is only a move that helps in a moment while sacrificing so much more.
Perhaps her choice is no less foolish. Mizu steps between them and thrusts the end of her naginata against the double to propel herself all the faster toward Vergil. She twists in the air to avoid his latest attack with only partial success as they move quickly together. Pain burns along her torso where she cuts herself against the edge. It doesn't matter. Mizu already pulls an explosive out, using her teeth to start the process. The wick burns down as she comes closer to Vergil. She stabs it into his armpit, set to use him to shield her from the worst of it. He may not be so large as the giant of a man she faced, but he's harder to kill. Though it's not like she's stabbing him in the neck with it.
As schooled as Vergil's expressions always are, the urgency of the moment leaves him no time to maintain his usual stoicism. His eyes widen at the explosive lodged in close to his person before he jerks his gaze to Mizu. There's no time to think, to analyze the risk. It's by pure animal instinct that Vergil's hand fists into the front of Mizu's shirt. He draws Mizu in close for just a moment, but it's not to ensure he also bears some of the blast. It's a windup before he hurls Mizu with all his strength before the explosive is detonated. Mizu is not left to fend for himself though once launched. Vergil's doppelgangerβstill manifested and still under the half-demon's controlβcatches Mizu clean out of the air. Its primary focus is to get Mizu safely on the ground, but still it draws the other swordsman in as tightly as it can and twists in midair to put its back to Vergil.
Once safely landed, Mizu is released and set down gently. The clone doesn't linger, however. By the time Mizu's on his feet, the blast has already come and gone, leaving dust and smoke in its wake. Having enacted the will of its master, the clone dissipates into wisps of its own blue smoke akin to Mirage Edge when it's dismissed.
Vergil's own landing is much less smooth than Mizu. The blast is blinding in both light and the pain it inspires and Vergil's world spins as he's lifted off the rooftop. Despite his grip, Mirage Edge falls from his hand somewhere along the way, although he couldn't rightly say where it ends up. He barely has any sense of where he is, only that he bounces and strikes and skids before he comes to wherever it is he's landed. He's only aware of the scent of burnt flesh and blood, his eyes stinging, and a maddening, deafening ring in his ears afterward.
His next breaths are raspy and wet, the taste of copper in the back of his throat. Vergil's vision swims as he sits up, the ground trying to become his walls and sky. The most he can make sense of is that the building stands between him and Mizu if his clone was successful, if he held onto his concentration for it long enough. It's of little consequence though if the shooting, hot pain in his side is any indication. Vergil blindly reaches around until his fingertips graze the chunk of shrapnel that's embedded itself into him. It takes a moment for him to get a proper grip. He has to close his eyes to shut out his still correcting vision before he can, but it at least gives him a moment to steady his breath first. Unlike removing the sword from his hand, Vergil isn't quite so quiet. A blade is a smooth edge. Shrapnel is significantly less so. What starts as a grunt and growl eventually tears out a howl of pain as it loosens and dislodges from the half-devil. He quiets down quickly enough though once it's removed.
Throwing it aside, Vergil tucks his legs beneath him and breaths through the discomfort as his body repairs the wound. Each breath is less raspy than the last and eventually, Vergil spits the blood from his mouth. He holds out a slightly shaky hand, and Mirage Edge returns to him from wherever it was sent. This time, the force of its return has a bit of an effect and Vergil must steady himself before he can use Mirage Edge as leverage.
Vergil rises once more to his feet. There's a slight sway for just a moment as he's still slightly hunched over, using the sword more as a cane than anything else. Like a newborn fawn or calf, he takes an unsteady half-step in his initial attempt to right himself. But after a pause, Vergil rights himself properly and he's firmly planted back to the ground once he does. Despite the cuts and scrapes, and the blossoming bruise to the side of his face, he would appear no worse for wear in the end.
With his significant injuries more or less done healing, he looks for Mizu, assuming that the swordsman went looking for Vergil for one reason or another.
When their eyes meet, he says, "I can still fight."
Though Mizu meant to use Vergil to block the worst of the blast from her, she cannot fault him for grabbing her and holding her close. She's survived it before, and she can survive it again. Probably. At least the explosion isn't happening within a contained space. Plus the fall is not nearly as far. Mizu prepares for the consequencesβit was her choice to risk themβwhen suddenly she flies through the air. There's little time to stare at Vergil, less to ask him why, when the double comes for her. She readies herself to continue the fight, but again, no, it's anything but.
In the end, Mizu cannot see the explosion itself or what happens to Vergil. Her view is blocked, and Mizu struggles against the thing that looks like Vergil but isn't to do so. It doesn't work. They land, and it sets her down with gentleness she doesn't deserve. Mizu would demand answers of it except it disappears. Mizu's heart thumps hard in her chest. Did she get it wrong? Did she kill Vergil? Cross the single line they agreed not to cross, the line it's felt impossible for her to cross with what she's currently capable of. She did not strike it into his head or neck, for concern that might go too far, or use the wire she carries to try to decapitate him. Reasonable limits, Mizu thought.
Walking hurts, both because of the wound to her foot and the fresh slice into her flesh. It matters not at all. With her weapon to stabilize her, she moves quickly around the building they were just atop. Vergil did not land back in the street with her, so he must be somewhere else. She cannot easily reach the top, so she first will check the entire perimeter. Something releases in her when she sees him breathing. Little as Mizu generally cares about honor or lying to others, she's glad she hasn't made so much a mistake that Vergil pays for. He looks worse than she expected. In another moment, he straightens and looks much better, though Mizu cannot tell if that is his healing or his pride.
Other minor injuries remain, something Mizu expects of most people but not of Vergil. It should be a thrill of success, a mark of progress to wound him enough that something sticks. Though Mizu marks the knowledge, the way she remembers everything that could help her, she would call the fight there ifβ
A pleased smile crosses Mizu's face at his words, so similar to her own time and time again. Mizu returns her sword to its state and wraps herself in her steel guards, a quick movement despite the pain. "As can I," Mizu assures him.
Not that she used the break, the pause, to heal. Her mind was nothing close to calm. With the same respect she expects from him when she says those words, Mizu shrugs back her shoulders, returns to a good stance, and flies forward. Curiosity as well drives her. She returns to the technique of attacks of attrition, those designed to wound and to slow him down. Before, they'd do nothing, but Mizu needs to know whether that is still the case.
To the untrained and unfamiliar eye, it's likely that Vergil would seem ultimately unaffected by the explosive. He keeps pace with Mizu without too much trouble, parrying and dodging his strikes as they come. One after the other and Vergil doesn't break a sweat or show any signs of tiring. But Mizu's had enough time sparring with Vergil to know the difference. Mirage Edge doesn't glow with quite the same brightness, its afterimage smaller and closer to the blade itself rather than proving itself to be a potential threat that it tends to be. Rather than taking the opportunity to strike back or turn the tide of their clashing back into his own offensive measures, Vergil plays it conservatively. He remains defensive instead and simply focused on not getting hit. But even his defensive maneuvers have changed. He's less keen to use his trick dodges, no longer teleporting himself out of harm's way. He opts for more physical movements, leaning, stepping, and even rolling and flipping himself out of the way when it calls for it.
So, she doesn't need to land strikes to wound and slow him down. As it is, he's already slowed down relative to normal. As ready as Vergil is to fight again and as much as he still holds his own seemingly easily enough with what he's been reduced to relying upon, it's more an illusion of being hardly worse for wear than the truth. An injury such as the one Mizu bestowed upon him with the grenade takes a bit of time for Vergil to recuperate from the expenditure of demonic energy to heal. Never mind using his clone to bring Mizu to safety just moments before. It serves as evidence that for Vergil, it's not just his abilities or raw strength that define his skill. He has a sharp mind and is attuned deeply to the rhythm and flow of their sparring that he doesn't need to move at a speed faster than Mizu can track with his eyes to avoid being sliced.
But before Mizu can find any potential comfort in the evidence that Vergil has slowed a bit, Vergil starts to gradually find his second wind. As Vergil focuses less on the dull throb of his side as the last of the injury truly heals, and more on predicting Mizu's next move, Mirage Edge slowly begins to glow brighter again. The more they clash, the greater the distance from the spectral blade to its afterimage. Mizu gets a strike past Vergil's defenses as he sometimes tends to, but rather than finding Vergil stumbling back or faltering, Vergil doesn't hesitate and attempts to exploit the inherent vulnerability in landing a strike by returning one to Mizu. He ignores the pain in his side, the wound healing just as quickly as it always does, to follow up regardless of whether he lands one strike after the next or not.
There are limits to Vergil's abilities, limits even someone like Mizu can push him toward. Their fight feels more familiar to those back home, to facing an excellent if human opponent, for some time. This side of him, the skills that come of training and self-reliance, earn more of her respect than any flashy fancy magical skill could. Mizu doesn't forget what he revealed in his lodgings, that he can learn any weapon simply by picking it up, but plenty of fools learn the moves without learning how to apply them properly. Defensive as Vergil is, he's good.
Mizu presses hard, despite the blood starting to soak into her clothes and the blood marking her steps on the ground as they move over and over again. He also heals. Slower. But heals. Vergil finds no reason to wait to heal himself (or perhaps it is not choice but fact). Mizu fails to take necessary advantage of Vergil's weakness, though she notes how long it takes Vergil to recover. Should she would him so severely in the future, she knows the length of her window. Her teeth grind, but Mizu has no time to ponder on that reaction. Not in the middle of combat.
Her sword finds purchase, dealing lasting damage to Vergil's clothes but no more. She twists to avoid his attack. The move avoids Mirage Edge itself, but the flow of their movements pushes her into the afterimage. A small grimace as she earns yet another injury. Honestly, someone could guess she's the one who got too close to a grenade with these injuries she's building up. Despite it, Mizu blocks the next attack and the next, though the pain in her foot makes it harder to hold the proper footwork. Her sandal is damaged, and her foot slips on the blood when she stays in place too long.
Clearly, everything is as normal. Vergil. Her. Nothing changed but the firmness of their determination. It starts to snow around them on the previously clear day. Mizu thinks little of it, when it is likely due to the fox spirit. A few flakes then more. Mizu takes a step back to grab a handful of snow out of the air and rub it across her face. Its coolness brings her back to her senses. Vergil's fine. She's... fine enough. The pain fades from her focus and attention, and Mizu attacks with excellent technique despite her injuries. Fast and hard, even going for the point of impact from the explosion, should it be a sensitive spot.
They separate again, a natural pause in the flow and rhythm of their fight, as the flakes begin to fall. Vergil glances skyward at the sudden precipitation, brow furrowing in curiosity. He doesn't need to have any sort of ability to sense that the snow isn't remotely natural. But rather than ruminating on the relatively inoffensive snowfall (the individual flakes sting a bit against his cuts and scrapes, but there is something soothing about the cooler air against his bruise), Vergil sheds his ruined coat and tosses it aside. His shirt and vest are not holding up much better technically speaking. They bear the same slashes in their fabrics as the coat, but there's far less for Mizu to potential grab hold of with those relative to his coat by now. Vergil isn't bothered by the chill brought about by the snow either, the flakes landing and melting on his bare arms as he readies himself into position.
He's impressed with Mizu. Consistently, he's impressed with Mizu. It's almost enough to make Vergil wonder if perhaps even with his improved appreciation for humans if perhaps he is still a little too harsh on his opinions. But that's unlikely the case, he thinks. Mizu is just simply...remarkable. He pushes through pain. He maintains technique and form far beyond what should be reasonable. Perhaps really the only criticism Vergil can offer is in his willingness to throw his life away in pursuit of his goal. It would be more than a little hypocritical, of course, with everything that Vergil had once discarded for the sake of power, but it doesn't make it any less true. Vergil has seen it time and time again. Technique eventually frays giving way to a more base, animalistic instinct. As though killing Vergil bears the same importance as each breath he draws for his continued existence. He bleeds and bleeds and bleeds, and no drop of it seems to serve a discouragement or a push to yield for Mizu.
So, he's remarkable. But he's a remarkable fool.
Vergil's side isn't as tender by the time Mizu attempts to exploit it for his gain. There's no loss of control or form, nor any attempt to retreat and withdraw, but it's one of the rare times that Vergil makes a sound when struck by Mizu. He grits his teeth hard, jaw clenched as he tries to suppress the noise. He's successful insomuch that it does not carry far beyond them, but Mizu will have surely heard it regardless of his efforts. He strikes back not with Mirage Edge, but with his fist to Mizu's jaw to knock him back. It's not hard to see why as Vergil wants the space as he summons swords around Mizu. They spin around the other swordsman much like the spiral Vergil tends to summon to make space for himself. But rather than pointing outward in a protective formation as they would when circling Vergil, they point toward Mizu. They'll only hover a moment before Vergil wills them to stop and converge upon the center point that Mizu happens to occupy. Whether they pierce their target or Mizu is successful in deflecting them all and breaking them before they strike, Vergil leaps at him with an overhead swing to follow up.
The noises Vergil makes bring satisfaction, something like music to her ears, not to be the only one making those sounds as they fight. Mizu ignores the threat of hollowness to that feeling, and a hard blow that sends her head ringing clears any thoughts about anything but the fight. That moment. The fact that Vergil only ever goes for distance to create space for something inhuman, impressive, and irritating. Something that is readily apparent as Mizu readies herself to face it.
Had she the time, Mizu would give Vergil a look that conveys exactly what she thinks of moves like this. However, the numerous sharp pointed objects rain down toward her in less time than that would take. The pain she is in is nothing. Mizu moves toward one side, sweeping those blades aside first in the small time that buys her from the rest. Her sword continues moving, and Mizuβfuck the lesson about the disadvantage in going to the floorβdrops in a roll to the ground as her sword sweeps aside the rest.
Well. Almost all the rest.
One sword deflects but not far enough. It pierces her arm. Mizu cries out in frustration, and pain, even as she continues to roll back to standing. No time to concern herself with the latest injury because Vergil attacks again. There's no time for anything but to block the blow while redirecting it away from her. The force of his attack reverberates through her, and her body frees itself of yet more blood as a consequence. His strike need not land to wound her. Even so much costs her dearly. A moment most people might consider the right time to concede.
Instead, Mizu moves in and, despite her body's protests, switches to a one handed grip on her sword. She reaches for Vergil's arm, to use to pull herself in and, though it likely will not land, skewer him from the side with her sword. Defeat is for those who accept it.
Vergil is sent back a little with the impact of their blades colliding. He's able to stop too much momentum from pushing him too far away, but it would appear that it plays to his disadvantage in the end as Mizu grapples onto his arm and draws himself in close. It's a snap decision, but Vergil isn't willing to chance getting stabbed in that particular side again. Not with how far and deep Mizu will no doubt be able to drive it at this angle. He'll be pushed all the more closer to his limits if the strike lands, and it will be too awkward and clumsy to cross his body with Mirage Edge to protect himself.
Thus, it hits like a gale from a storm and Vergil is engulfed in a blue light similar to that of his spectral manifestations, blasting outward in the blink of an eye in a wide radius that sends snow flying out and forcing back Mizu's blade before it can hit its target. If Mizu manages to hold on tight enough to Vergil that he's merely lifted by the transformation rather than thrown, he'll find in place of smooth skin to be scales akin to that of a reptile beneath his hand. Despite the reptilian armor though, Vergil runs feverishly hot like this, albeit none of the infernal energy exhausting from his horns or arms burns to the touch. It's the clone Mizu has seen time and time again made truly real and solid albeit without the Yamato sheathed.
Vergil's tail lashes behind him.
If Mizu thought Vergil was quick and strong before, he is about to have a much truer demonstration of Vergil's demonic power.
Mizu closes her eyes and holds tightly to Vergil's arm. Though she begins with her torso close, nearly hugging his arm to her chest, by the end she's horizontal perpendicular to Vergil's torso and her arm long and straight. It tears at all her wounds, and Mizu's more impressed she kept a hold of her sword than anything else. She looks at Vergil as her feet return to the ground. The features are familiar, if new to the flesh. So that's a demon. Vergil's sort of demon at least.
The fact he gets an additional limb in the form of a tail is absolutely unfair. The name of the game the whole time they've sparred, however, so sure. Of course it's Vergil. Mizu bets that new skin is tougher than before. Harder to pierce or slash. Her job's never been easy, and she wouldn't enjoy fighting Vergil if it were.
Unfortunately, while Vergil's grown stronger and faster, Mizu's strength quavers. Her wounds are numerous, and the blood loss makes it harder to stay on her feet. Her stubbornness carries her far, but her attacks are weaker, her movements sluggish, and her vision going dark around the edges. Still, he'll have to remove her sword and prove his win to get it.
Mizu is notably fading the longer this fight continues on. When he's knocked off-balance, he over-corrects accidentally. Vergil doesn't need to rely upon his full speed to parry Mizu's strikes. Those that do manage to land come more from Vergil not bothering to defend himself rather than Mizu breaking past his defenses as his assumption about the toughness of Vergil's skin like this is correct. Mizu's blade connects, but there isn't so much as a scratch left in its wake. Even attempts at his wingsβwhich he keeps folded down close to his person in a manner that almost seems to mirror his coat rather than extending and flexing themβdon't seem to produce a different result. His skin there is no less invulnerable.
It won't be much longer. Vergil is certain of it. Either he claims Mizu's sword or he simply passes out again from his injuries. There are no alternatives at this point.
He'd like to try to for the former if at all possible and give Mizu the opportunity to heal from his injuries. But if it ends up the latter... Well, Vergil's apartment isn't far and Mizu isn't particularly heavy even with his weights on his ankles and wrists.
Mizu strikes out again and their blades meet, gliding along the edge of one another until they meet one another's guards. A clawed hand comes to the dull side of Mizu's blade and leverages it downward to start creating an uncomfortable twist of Mizu's wrists to maintain a hold on it. As he begins to twist the blade into this position, Vergil dismisses Mirage Edge so that he can more freely grab the hilt and fully wrench it from Mizu's hands. If he's successful, he leaps back with a teleport, poised Mizu's katana in his right hand, and Mirage Edge once again manifested albeit in his left hand. If he's not able to wrestle the katana away, he turns quickly and manifesting Mirage Edge, he drives the pommel as hard as he can behind himself and toward Mizu's center with enough force that in his condition, he should be sent tumbling to the ground.
"That's enough."
While in this form, it's still recognizably Vergil's voice. But there's an inhuman quality to it. Despite being in the open, his voice almost sounds as though it is reverberating, layering over itself.
Were Mizu's arm not so badly hurt, she's sure she would have kept her sword. Instead, she's left staring at Vergil holding her sword. Not a sword of her own hand, to be sure; Mizu uses the blade she pulled from a book the first time they met. She blinks, her hand closing around open air, as she stares at him, at that image. It's more striking than his transformation into a demon. Strange, like something imagined, not actually happening.
His voice cuts through it, even as she starts to step toward him. Were they fighting to the death, she would carry on. She's faced dozens of men before, starting without a weapon. Her state would not deter her. With Vergil, however, Mizu can acknowledge there's no further victory at this point. Her steps lead her not toward him but the nearest wall. Mizu turns to lean against it and slowly, with as much control as she can muster, slide down.
Her knees jut up before her torso, and that brings a large wince as it pulls at the long slice across her body. Despite the blood flowing freely from one arm, Mizu physically rearranges her legs to sit cross legged. Blood soaks the snow around her. Indeed so much of the snow is red, it's striking. The color she associates with other people, not herself. Blue is her color. Her mind's wandering when Mizu needs it to focus. She grabs a large handful of clean white snow and holds it against her face. A painful shiver runs through her, but it clears her mind. Mizu feels more herself. More centered. For however long that lasts, she has to focus and meditate. Her eyes close, and Mizu focuses on the lessons swordfather gave her. His voice runs through her mind, a comfort, and her attention turns toward her new ability. To heal herself.
It is harder than any time before, the minor practice before today and even when she healed her leg. Her injuries are worse, and her ability to focus lessened. Something happens, but Mizu nearly passes out during it, her exhaustion so great. She straightens her spine forcefully, winces at the pain that still brings, and admits that what she can do that moment is over. Mizu runs over the sensation of her injuries. Her foot no longer hurts. That wound is healed. The rest, she cannot tell if there is any improvement.
Mizu groans and moves to stand again. The pain is nothing new, and she has looked after herself a long time.
Vergil is entirely prepared for the possibility that his direct statement that their battle with one another has met its end will be ignored. It isn't exactly unlike Mizu to ignore his limits and attempt to push past them even at great cost to himself, after all. But thankfully, for once, it would seem that Mizu sees sense in Vergil calling their fight there. He wobbles his way toward the wall rather than to meet Vergil in one last attempt to snatch a victory. He's even so reasonable that it appears he is willing to take the time to try and heal his injuries as well. As Mizu's eyes close and he meditates, Vergil lowers both blades. As he exhales, he transforms back, a softer light as the slightly larger, sturdier form he was seems to drift away like a mix of ash and smoke. Mirage Edge follows shortly thereafter.
Vergil waits patiently for Mizu to be done, idly running through a few kata with Mizu's sword to keep himself occupied. For being a blade pulled from a book, it's not terrible. It's balanced and he knows well enough the edge is sharp and clean. But it's not the Yamato. Vergil doesn't have a chance to ruminate upon that, however, as he's interrupted by Mizu attempting to stand on his own. He rolls his eyes slightly before narrowing his stance once more. Walking over, he returns Mizu his blade, allowing him to sheathe it for himself. Vergil anticipates protest and struggle, so the katana barely has a moment to click back into its scabbard before Vergil bends down and scoops Mizu up off his feet.
Despite the swiftness of the movement, Vergil is at least careful of potentially still open wounds on Mizu's person. He's certain that it's Mizu's uninjured arm that's against him, and while it's a firm hold, it's not crushing and potentially putting pressure on any slashes that might remain along Mizu's side.
"You take more than a few steps and you're going to pass out," he says, providing an explanation for the sudden bridal carry. Vergil's tone likely implies that he doesn't particularly care the implications of this for Mizu's pride regardless of the apparent hypocrisy. Vergil begins carrying Mizu off in the direction of his apartment building. "You can rest at my apartment. If you wish to leave after you've regained enough strength to manage returning to your home on your own, you may."
It will likely only be an hour or two. Long enough for perhaps a small amount of sleep and some food, and Mizu should be steadier on his feet. Perhaps even possess the ability to heal more of his injuries before he goes. Regardless, Vergil doesn't imagine that Mizu will stay for longer than that. Even if the pair of them are doing marginally better at holding a conversation with one another, they never...just spend time in one another's presence for the sake of it. And once the purpose of ensuring that Mizu won't simply pass out on the way to his secluded cabin is concluded... Mizu isn't one to linger in Vergil's experience.
The return of her sword relieves something sharp and jagged, but Mizu quickly finds herself no longer standing. That nearly has her hand reaching to draw her sword yet again based on pure instinct. It's Vergil, no one else, but Mizu opens her mouth in protest. To object to the idea she would have passed out. Her foot is healed, no longer bleeding and screaming in pain with each step. She could manage to walk to his apartment. Her face makes clear her opinion of this indignity. The strength to walk and the strength to free herself from Vergil's firm grip are two entirely different things.
It's not the first time Vergil's carried her, though usually Mizu is actually unconscious for the act. When someone's unconscious, it's simply necessary to carry them. Awake and alert enough to remember the act, Mizu finds it wholly different. "You forgot your jacket," Mizu says for lack of anything else to say. His hold is warm. The farther they get from the snow, no longer falling, the warmer it gets in the regular spring summer air. This indignity is simply the price of losing. Between the two of them, anyone would suspect she's the one who survived an explosive, not him.
Why must Vergil live in one of the most populous housing options? Mizu would rather not be carried at all, but worse that she's carried to his lodgings instead of her own. Rin lives there too and could see her. No matter how well she is when next they see each other, if Rin sees her so hurt, she'll worry. Nor is there any point in attempting to hide her identity. That will only draw attention. All in all, being carried is a terrible idea.
"Entirely unnecessary," Mizu murmurs under her breath. Never mind that it hurts to breath. She's survived worse. Yes she was unconscious for multiple days, and Ringo brought her home to swordfather, but she survived. Fine. Mizu suffers the indignity with what little pride she can manage. It isn't even the first time he's carried her today. It reminds her of the explosion, and the way Vergil sent his double, that winged tailed form, to shield her and set her gently on the ground. It makes no sense, less sense than now, even if he knew he couldn't be killed. That's not how fighting is supposed to work between opponents. He could have ended the fight much sooner if he'd held her close, forced her to take some of the damage.
If she were in a better state, Mizu would keep her mouth shut. Instead she mutters, "You don't make sense."
Despite the look Mizu levels at Vergil for the indignity of being carried, he remains undeterred. In fact, Vergil outright ignores the look and says nothing to most of Mizu's mutterings. The coat is ruined. So, there's no reason to take the time to collect it. Perhaps someone elseβbe it a Star Child or one of the native spiritsβwill find it and make some use out of it. Regardless, it's beyond Vergil's skills to salvage it and it serves little use for him now. And as for Mizu's judgment on what's necessary for his recovery? Vergil would deem it poor at best. So, there's no reason to entertain a debate about it. Especially when Vergil is already carrying him. What good is it to argue about something that is already happening? It's a waste of words and breath.
It's only Mizu's statement that he doesn't make any sense that garners Vergil's attention because the statement itself doesn't make any particular sense to him. He glances down at Mizu then, frowning a little before looking ahead once more. Although Vergil is willing to ignore the injury to Mizu's pride in being carried like this, he understands it. And by Vergil's measure with that understanding, it shouldn't seem so unusual or strange that Vergil would make certain he didn't slam into the cobblestone while trying to make his way to the train station or become buried beneath a hefty drift of snow before he could reach the safety of inside his cabin.
After their fights, Vergil has always seen to Mizu's recovery in some form or fashion. He's carried Mizu after beating him into unconsciousness, and stayed until he opened his eyes again. Vergil has always lingered long enough to see to it that Mizu tends to his injuries before leaving. And Vergil's already provided his explanation regarding that matter. He did so the very first time when Mizu balked at Vergil's insistence to make certain he tended to his wounds. Why should this time be any different than those that preceded them? Vergil's brow furrows a little further as he cannot find the difference.
"When have I ever abandoned you to bleed out after a fight?" he asks after a moment of silence.
As they make a proper approach to the apartment building, Vergil strays from the main thoroughfare. While he's been fortunate enough to have neighbors who tend to mind their own business, he's not particularly keen with the notion of carrying a bloodied human in his arms through the front door and chance running into someone on the way up. There will be needless questions and fussing that both Vergil and Mizu will find irritating if that should happen. Better to take the alleys between buildings sooner rather than later and aim for his balcony instead. He only lives on the second floor, and even with Mizu in his arms, he should be able to get enough height with a second jump off the side of the building itself.
Mizu rests her head against Vergil as he walks because there's little point in holding it up when he's holding the rest of her. Win or lose, this usually happens. It is only when they fight right near her home that she may get the dignity of walking herself inside under his supervision. Yet it would be a loss to fight Vergil in one environment only. The varied surroundings and conditions makes it more exciting and realistic. Even if it comes at this cost. Mizu suffers it. It's not like she has honor.
His question makes her blink, and Mizu turns her face up toward Vergil. While she would not have held anything against Vergil for leaving her to tend her own wounds, he's never been that way. He was the first guest, so to speak, she had when he waited in her main room while she tended to her injuries. Part of that vow not to kill each other, not during the fight nor afterward. Her mind is foggy enough it takes a couple moments to connect his question to her statement that he doesn't make sense. That comment wasn't for him. It wasn't aboutβ
"Not that," Mizu says quietly. Held as she is, there isn't much a way to gesture. Though carrying her is unnecessary. She maintains that, and as he didn't permit her to prove she could walk, neither of them can say they are right with complete and utter certainty. Not that that will stop either of them from being certain.
"Earlier," Mizu clarifies, "with the explosive. I've done that before. A body is enough of a shield I lived, but you would have had an easier time beating me." It doesn't make sense. Even without pulling her toward the explosive and ensuring she likely died from it, Vergil could have taken advantage. He could have simply done nothing about her and let what happened happened. He didn't. He took multiple unnecessary actions to protect her, to minimize the harm she took. It did nothing to her.
Mizu wants to look away, but she refuses to be the coward. She watches Vergil as best she can from how she's held.
"Perhaps," he says, falling silent again. It's not a particularly honest answer insomuch they both know that the easier victory would have been true. Even without ensuring that Mizu bore some degree of the blast as well, there is no way he could have possibly moved away quickly enough from that explosion to avoid injury. It's also not a particularly honest answer because it's feigning ignorance of the implied question Mizu is posing to Vergil.
Why?
He can feel Mizu's gaze on him, watching him closely. Vergil doesn't hold doubts that his response isn't bringing about any satisfaction, and Mizu likely knows the word is ultimately meaningless in the ways in which it lacks any sort of truth or acknowledgment. He doesn't feel guilt or shame for offering something unsatisfactory, however. Another's satisfaction hardly matters to him and Mizu is no exception. So, it's not that motivating him to eventually continue in his response.
"Regardless of whatever abilities the fox spirit grants you, that explosive was reckless and stupid." Vergil doesn't condescend by talking to Mizu as though he were scolding a child. It's a statement of fact. It was reckless. It was stupid. He's certain deep down even Mizu is capable of recognizing that given that he already assumed the consequence could mean a quicker end to their sparring. "Simply because you decided to be a fool doesn't mean that I need to abide by it."
It's a fuller answer than his initial response, but it's still not the full of it because there is no unmaking the truth that it wasn't to Vergil's advantage in the slightest. It was foolish for Vergil to not to let Mizu reap the consequences of his choices. Had Vergil lost consciousness after the blast, the shrapnel from the grenade itself would have hindered his healing. Mizu also could have easily taken advantage of Vergil being unarmed and on his knees rather than waiting for him to regroup. It's not as though the other swordsman was so above fighting dirty, after all. So, in that decision to protect Mizu, it could have just as easily been over and done for Vergil. He would have been forced to yield one way or another had things gone a little differently.
So, it's true that Vergil has the ability to decide if he's going to let Mizu taste the consequences of foolish decisions. But that still doesn't provide a reason as to why his instinct wasn't to let Mizu be his own undoing. Especially when Vergil privately knows that being the protector of another... Well, that was a drive and instinct he gave up a long time ago. It's only ever been about his pursuit of power for decades, and thus, only ever ensuring his own survival. What became of others mattered little. The lives lost and broken because of him were negligible.
Then again, maybe that wasn't the conflict. Maybe Vergil didn't see it as his survival or even his defeat were on the line in that moment, and it really did boil down to refusing to let Mizu's self-destructive tendencies determine the outcome. Perhaps it was that selfish part of him that wants what he feels entitled to through his own power and merit that drove him to do it. Perhaps it is a fuller answer than it seems, and there's nothing more to it.
Vergil looks down at Mizu though, and he feels like a child clumsily trying to bluff his way through some predicament to an adult that already knows the truth, but waits to see when he will say it. Vergil can't intuit Mizu's mind, but his words feel so paper thin without Mizu having to say or do anything. He quickly averts his gaze with a mild heat rising to his face and ears, and he feels all at once frustrated. Granted, the frustration is without a specific target as this also appears to happen quite frequently after they spar. Something...lifts afterward. A heaviness that Vergil is so accustomed to bearing that it's only in its absence that he notices it. And in its absence, he seems to part with things. A little at a time and usually without his notice. But something about this makes him cling tighter to it, more unwilling to part with it. Not that he could exactly articulate why that is.
"I was not thinking of the outcome of the fight." It's the most he's willing or able to say on the matter. Vergil comes to a stop at the base of the apartment building and looks up at his balcony. He has a firm hold on Mizu that he's not in any danger of being dropped on the way up, but it's likely there will be a bit of jostling. "Hold onto me."
He waits until he feels Mizu take whatever amount of hold he can muster to minimize how much he's shifted around before leaping into the air. He scales a good portion of the way up before his feet hit the side of the building. Bouncing off the wall, he directs the momentum toward his balcony. His feet find the edge and without removing his arm as a support for Mizu's back, his hand finds the railing. He raises Mizu's knees to grab the railing with his other hand and nods for him to slide himself over the railing and onto the balcony on his own. Once Mizu is clear, Vergil pulls himself the rest of the way over the railing as well.
There is never any surety of what might have happened more than one step removed. It's not as though Vergil had a sword pressed against Mizu's heart, so they could say 'Vergil could have killed Mizu.' It's only that Mizu would have been affected by the explosion in some way. That is too chaotic to say for certain. Perhaps is true. It's also unsatisfactory. It doesn't explain why he did what he did. Mizu doesn't ask again. Vergil will say what he will say and nothing more. Perhaps someone more skilled in conversation might dig more out (doubtful), but Mizu is not that person.
The explosive was reckless, but what was the alternative? Losing more certainly? Surely Vergil can understand how that will not satisfy Mizu, not when she fights like she does, like each fight matters, the difference between achieving her revenge and not. Vergil sees a far broader array of her fighting, fiercer and more determined, than anyone else. Even should any of the hand to hand instructors be able to survive that mode of fighting, it's not what she's looking for from them. She's improving technique, not reaching her fathers. Against Vergil, Mizu improves her technique and adapts her strategies. She also takes it far more seriously and fights more underhanded. As was his wish. That means the reckless along with the best technique Mizu has. It's part and parcel.
The fact Vergil can transform into a demonic form whose skin her sword cannot even cut demonstrates one of the ways he holds back during fights. The way he made the fight thoroughly one-sided the first time they sparred again after the disastrous conversation in his apartment demonstrates it. Infuriating as it is that Vergil holds back, it's far more infuriating that he needs to. Mizu will beat him, no matter what it takes, even explosives, so that he cannot hold back as much as he does now. In that regard, today was a victory. It's the first time she's witnessed him, not only his double, take that form. That pleases Mizu in a way she does not put into words. That move makes sense. Pushing her away, shielding her with his double, that does not serve him well in the fight.
It makes no sense.
Though Mizu already watches Vergil's face, she's stunned and stares when he says it wasn't about the fight. About the outcome. She would forget where they are, save that he speaks again in a way that promises pain. Pain doesn't matter. Mizu fists Vergil's vest with one hand and reaches across herself painfully to get a second anchor point. The neckline of his shirt.
Not used to bothering to hide pain outside of a fight, when Mizu frequently forgets or ignores it, Mizu flinches as the leaps jostle her. It's better than walking through the public areas of Satori Hills. No complaint there. It takes a moment to gather herself. Vergil is letting her climb onto his balcony. That's right. She can do that. Mizu slides away from Vergil and lets go of him to steady on the railing itself. Only for a moment. Rather than focus on what Vergil's words could mean, Mizu takes small forcefully steady steps toward the door into Vergil's apartment. It's not far, and with her foot healed, she manages it.
Woozy from the loss of blood, Mizu pauses, leaning against that door. What was Vergil thinking about? Mizu blinks and stares at him, as though that will provide any further insight. She may as well be swordfather, for how much Mizu can tell from his face. With a small shake of her head to clear her thoughts and focus, she turns back to the door and slides it open. It's only far enough she can slip inside and continue, tracking a little blood, toward Vergil's bed. He lacks much furniture, and Mizu refuses to collapse on the floor.
"I'll be... fine," Mizu says with determination. Whether she has the healing ability or not, she'll live. She'll recover. She'll be fine. Nothing she regrets about their fight, not when she knows that explosive won't kill him. Not there. She was right.
When Mizu stares at him from the door, Vergil says nothing. The silence isn't discomforting given that neither Mizu nor Vergil are ones for idle chatter, but it feels oddly...prolonged. So, his brow furrows slightly as he begins to wonder if he's going to need to step in with getting the door and ushering Mizu to his bed. But the swordsman seems to shake out of his stupor long enough to get the door open and has just enough sense to know where he needs to go. Vergil follows Mizu inside, opting to leave the balcony door open and allow a bit of fresh air into the studio apartment. He doesn't care much about the blood on his floor or the blood that's surely to be on his bed after Mizu rests upon it. He can clean the blood on the floor later after Mizu is settled, and his bedding is ultimately washable. Never mind it doesn't see much use anyway. Vergil tends to stay awake for longer periods of time than is probably advisable even with his heritage.
"I know," he says at Mizu's reassurance. There hasn't been a fight between them yet that Mizu hasn't recovered from in the end.
The most he does for Mizu is pull back the covers on the bed, but he otherwise lets the other swordsman handle getting himself settled. Mizu has a bed to collapse upon should he find himself struggling, anyway, so Vergil will allow Mizu's pride to dictate how much support he has or not. As Mizu settles, Vergil gets a large bowl with some soapy water and a pair of towels from the kitchen. He sets them down on the nightstand near the bed for Mizu to clean off some of the blood and grime. As little as Vergil is concerned with the state of his bedding by the time Mizu is done resting, he can at least recognize that it would probably feel a little better for Mizu to clean up. Even if it's just the rest of what the snow could not on his face. To that end, Vergil opens his wardrobe and pulls from it a shirt and pair of sweatpants. As he does, he says, "I'll make you some food after I've showered."
Rather than taking the clothing with him, however, Vergil lightly tosses them at the foot of the bed in a silent offer for Mizu to make use of them if he so desires. They'll be a little large on his smaller frame, of course, but they're at least clean and it won't require spending any Lore to summon a fresh pair of clothes. But if all Mizu wants to do is simply lie down and sleep, far be it from Vergil to take any offense to not cleaning himself up or taking the clothes.
He pulls out another change of clothes for himself, and slides his wardrobe shut. Out of habit, he begins to reach beneath his shirt and vest to pull his out the amulet around his neck. Vergil pauses and hesitates, however, with a glance at Mizu, his grip subtly tightening around the amulet itself. After a few quiet seconds of debate, he releases the amulet and removes it, placing it on its usual spot on the nightstand. It's been out in the open before and Mizu let it be. He didn't seem to pay it any mind whatsoever the last time he was in Vergil's apartment, in fact. So, Vergil likely has very little to worry about leaving it there with Mizu.
As he heads towards his bathroom, Vergil begins unbuttoning his vest, scoffing quietly to himself at the tears in the fabric.
Mizu's first instinct is to collapse, but with Vergil watching, Mizu takes more care. She sits and rests her injured arm in her lap. Her wounds aren't bleeding as profusely as before, either because she's running out of blood or because the wounds are clotting. Each injury comes with damage to her clothes, cuts through the layers. Mizu pulls her sleeve away from her arm and winces. It sets her to bleeding a little more. The bowl and towels come into her peripheral vision, not as black as before, and Mizu grunts in appreciation.
The cuts in her clothing allow her to clean the wounds without revealing more skin than necessary. Without revealing anything she doesn't want to. Mizu uses her uninjured hand to clean around the wounds so nothing goes worse before she can heal them. Her ability isn't an excuse for reckless wound care. She flinches as she goes, pressing against sensitive wounds. That's how injuries go. Even Vergil isn't entirely stoic. Mizu saw that today. It's not embarrassing to be wounded or to take care of herself. Even as her head gets woozy, she carries on, wiping her face along the way.
The clothes are the greater surprise. The entire time it takes Vergil to leave, to place the amulet on the nightstand and go, Mizu focuses her attention on the simple nightclothes offered to her. She remembers how similar clothes fit on Vergil when she stopped by. They'll fit differently on her, and Mizu puzzles whether that would reveal more of her shape than she would like. To add to the matter, Mizu doesn't know how long it will take Vergil to shower, less than a bath, and she remains injured. That very well may be something he's chosen to be polite, so he can make food more quickly, but Mizu doubts she has time to change into these clothes and change back, should they be unacceptable. Fortunately, Vergil knows Mizu to be plenty rude when she chooses, so there's no social obligation to accept the offer.
There is no time for indecision. Mizu scans the room, as though Vergil may have overlooked some unexpected squatter in this room, and moves quickly despite the pain. She unties her obi, removes her haori, and forces her injured arm through one sleeve, grateful the shirt is large on her. She finishes pulling it on and considers it. Mizu scowls at the way the light breeze coming through the door emphasizes her curves. Her haori is dirty and sliced through, but Mizu pulls it on over the shirt to add some weight. The shirt is clearly visible where the largest slash across her torso goes.
The trousers... Mizu turns toward the closed bathroom door. The shower is still running. Fine. Her legs themselves aren't injured. It only hurts to lift herself up and twist her body around in the act of dressing and undressing. Unless she heals herself here, Mizu doubts she'll want to change back before leaving. In total, she's dressed without being seen. The trousers do not call attention to her hips, and her haori guards her silhouette.
The excitement and terror of the situation wear off and leave Mizu drained and exhausted and wavering even as she sits. Mizu leaves her clothes where they lay and lies down, settling on her back as the least awful option, and passes out without thinking about it.
Once inside the bathroom, Vergil sets his clean set of clothes down on the counter. It's only then that he really gets a sense of the bruise on his face. Reaching up with a hand, he touches it gently with just his fingertips and hisses at the way it stings and smarts with even that barest of touches. He briefly wonders if it was worse when it was fresher or not, but it's more of a distracting thought from the question Mizu implicitly asked him just moments ago. Or, more accurately, the subsequent question that Vergil didn't have an easily produced answer for. Unlike the weight of the question, the bruise will likely be gone by the morning.
But he still lingers on it and the little cuts adorning his features, allowing the distant thought that he hasn't looked this rough since he was a child after a fight with Dante to be more present instead. They'd both be forced to sit as their mother cleaned each cut and scrape. Vergil sat still and quietly even if occasionally his eyes were pricked with tears when it would sting or burn. Dante squirmed and caterwauled nearly the entire time. Vergil would hold his hand after a while to help simmer him down with a prepared excuse that he just wanted to make things easier for their mother, but really he thought it was what a big brother was supposed to do for his little brother. Dante never asked him why he did it though, and neither did their mother. She would only scold them a little, provide them with a chore, and let them be rather than lecture.
Vergil sighs at his reflection for a moment before crouching down to undo the straps on his boots. When he straightens, he turns on the shower to start warming up the water before he strips out of his clothes. The shirt and vest don't go into the laundry basket, instead finding themselves tossed away into the trash bin. He hesitates a moment before stepping into the shower, listening for any sound that might alert him to Mizu struggling in some form or fashion. But there isn't a sound coming from outside the bathroom door, and he can only assume Mizu is managing or otherwise asleep. Vergil will keep an ear out still, but he feels confident that Mizu is fine.
Cliche as it is, the shower really is a perfect place to clear his mind when distraction isn't going to prove effective. He lets it go blank as he watches the rivulets of water coming off him turn from red to pink for just a little while before he begins to properly scrub himself clean again. But the question eventually emerges once again as he touches his once grievously injured side. He protected Mizu because he wasn't thinking about the outcome of the fight, but...
Why had he not concerned himself more with that?
It's not as though he cares that deeply about Mizu's opinion of him, but even if he had, Mizu wouldn't have been angry for whatever Vergil would have done as his opponent. He would have understood, and he would have accepted that he made a significant mistake in thinking greater firepower than what he had produced thus far would best Vergil. That would have been it. And for as reckless as it was, Mizu has survived something similar by his own account. Vergil would have still absorbed the majority of the blast even if he just allowed Mizu to escape as far as he could carry himself before it detonated. But there was just the singular thought to get Mizu away as far as possible as quickly as possible, and he enacted it without much more thought than that. But why?
He shuts off the water, grabbing a towel and drying off a little before stepping out to dry off the rest of the way. Unlike in the shower, Vergil doesn't find himself meandering and is quicker to dry off and dress himself. He opens the bathroom door quietly, padding his way over to the bed to check on Mizu.
He doesn't dare sit on the bed, thinking that the shift in weight could wake Mizu either naturally or through agitating his wounds. So, he kneels down beside him. Looking at Mizu, Vergil considers the question a bit further.
For the entirety of his life, Vergil has never been good at protecting anything. That day, he wasn't able to protect his mother or Dante. He abandoned Nero and his mother. He arguably couldn't even really protect himself in the end. But even with all those failures, he wanted to protect Mizu.
He glances away at the amulet, quietly picking it up from where he left it and putting it back on. Once it's safely tucked away beneath his shirt, he looks to Mizu again. Tentatively, he reaches out with a hand, hesitating just before making contact just as he had at the bonfire. But Vergil summons up the courage, and feels Mizu's forehead to check for a fever. His hand lingers there for just a moment before slowly, he gently follows the line of Mizu's cheek and takes back his hand altogether.
...He wants to protect Mizu.
It's a stupid, foolish, reckless, and terrible feeling. It's completely unnecessary and pointless, and Vergil wants nothing more than to tear it out of himself, to shred it for as long as it takes to make it infinitesimal pieces. But it's there, having lodged itself there at some point or another. The consequence of his humanity, he supposes, mind drifting to the amulet beneath his shirt.
Vergil stands silently, collecting the bowl and used towels. He disposes of the water, cleans the bowl, and puts the dirtied towels in with the rest of the laundry before replacing the bowl with a glass of water on the nightstand. Vergil pulls the sheet over Mizu, but leaves the blanket off him given his choice to keep his haori on. From there, it's cleaning the little trail of blood left behind by Mizu when he came inside and making the promised food.
Mizu dreams fitfully, memories blurring together in ways that they should not. Ways that don't make sense. They continue in odd ways, even as she recognizes that they cannot be real. Vergil has no place in them, nor does he have any reason to wield a sword of her making. They are foolish dreams, the melding of common injuries repeated. When she wakes, Mizu tells herself that's all there is.
She comes to in an unfamiliar bed and reaches for her sword. Still in its scabbard, Mizu takes in her surroundings, memory muddling to the fore slower than the pain. How long was she out? Not long if those sounds are Vergil in the kitchen. She hopes. Mizu sits immediately, not good at staying lying down when she's uncertain about anything in her environment. Though it's safe to pass out around Vergil, Mizu still hates losing consciousness when it's not of her own choosing. The pain pierces through the rest, and Mizu accepts that, normal as it is.
The water is cool and refreshing, greatly appreciated. Mizu looks across the room at Vergil. There isn't anything else to do but sit and wait and slowly recover. Things she can all do here in safety. Only when the thought that Mizu should ask Vergil for a needle and thread does she remember her healing ability, foreign and unfamiliar as it is. If Mizu can heal herself, she doesn't need to sew the wounds shut. A convenient fact given the act only causes more pain. She could ask him for drugs to lessen the pain (not opium, more the pills that come in bottles). However, it is best Mizu masters this ability without any aid, so she does not.
Once again, Mizu arranges herself for meditation, staying in the bed for the process. Closing her eyes, Mizu repeats phrases softly to herself under her breath. For all that her anger burns cold within her, she can find peace and calm, at least for a few moments at a time. Her mind stays on swordfather and all he taught her. When she loses her focus and cannot find it again, Mizu considers her injuries. She slides one hand under the shirt to feel her wound. The skin has sewn shut, but the area is tender to the touch. Her arm is similarly much better but not fully healed. Most annoyingly, her head still feels woozy and light. Nearly drunk, Mizu wants to say, except that she does not drink and could not say with certainty that's how it would feel.
"I'm awake," Mizu declares, in the unlikely case Vergil hasn't noticed. Even under normal circumstances, whenever two people share a room, it's hard not to notice the other person. With her injuries, Mizu has no doubts Vergil's paid attention. "Thank you for your generosity."
The bed. The clothes. The food soon to follow. That isn't part of the obligations they've made to each other with their sparring. Mizu could have laid on the floor well enough. She's slept in less comfortable places.
When Mizu begins to stir, Vergil only spares a look long enough to confirm that Mizu is actually waking and not merely dreaming or shifting about in his sleep. After that, he pays him no mind and allows him his peace and calm, assuming that the smell of food woke him up.
Vergil's not much of a chef. The times he has had to fend for himself historically haven't exactly had much emphasis on the culinary arts so much as merely sustaining himself for the next day. But he's acquired a little skill since being in Folkmore, and he finds he doesn't mind it all too much preparing his own meals. There's something meditative about it, in any case. So, he's managed to put together a standard cheeseburgerβa seasoned patty with cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickles, ketchup, mustard, and mayo all on a lightly toasted bunβwith a side of some sweet potato fries. It seems a safe enough choice in meal given that he doesn't know Mizu's preferences and it'd be more than a little difficult for Vergil to mess it up.
He grunts his acknowledgement when Mizu announces he's awake, focusing on finishing with his plating and turning the stovetop off. He glances in Mizu's direction at the words of thanks, but he doesn't truthfully know what to do with them. He doesn't view what he's doing as anything particularly special, and he would like to think Mizu would extend a similar courtesy if their roles were reversed. In the end, he says nothing to it and brings the food and a small pitcher of water over on a tray. Normally, he'd insist for Mizu to sit at the table to eat to avoid crumbs in his bed, but the sheets will need washing anyway. So, Mizu might as well eat comfortably in bed. He sits down nearby at the foot of the bed and places the tray between them.
"It's not much," he says, loosely folding his arms, "but you should try to eat as much as you can." He pauses before adding, "How do you feel? You look like you're starting to get some color back."
Sitting up is enough effort at the moment that Mizu doesn't attempt more. She pushes herself hard, but when there is time to take a break, to pause, to breath, she does so. Fortunately, with her healing ability, Vergil's insistence in her recover will mean a much shorter break. Since she cannot take further steps on her revenge besides studying in the library and improving her skills as a swordsman, Vergil hasn't seen the full range of how she pushes herself to keep going. Lasting as long as she did in a fight against him is child's play in comparison.
She accepts the food and starts eating the vegetable on the side. That is more familiar to her, though she's been introduced to sandwiches before. In Japan, there would be chopsticks for the vegetable and... she's not sure how they would deal with sandwiches. The fact there is meat and cheese together in the sandwich is very much a white man concept. It's not what she expected from Vergil, but perhaps he learned about it here. The food is varied in Folkmore, and Mizu eats what is presented at various social gatherings. At home, her food is what she's used to.
Since there are no utensils, she picks up the sandwich with her hands and takes a bite. The meat is rich and fatty. The other parts of the sandwich introduce crunchy texture, sour flavors, and creaminess. It's a lot all in one bite. That seems appropriate to Vergil that he would like something like this. She needs the water and wipes her hands off on a napkin before reaching for the glass. She sips. Her appetite is both ravenous and nonexistent. She knows she needs food, but the process pulls at tender skin and sore muscles coming back together.
Mizu wishes Vergil would eat his sandwich. Being watched makes her feel more the invalid than she is and the accompanying desire to prove it. That makes her think of Taigenβthat insistence she could beat him anywhere at any time with any weapon. She did beat him with a chopstick. Though Vergil, of course, would immediately learn how to fight with a chopstick upon picking it up. Perhaps not when it's an improvised weapon? Mizu wonders about that.
"It is more difficult to focus and use the healing ability at the moment, but I closed the wounds themselves," Mizu says. "I'm not sure if it replenishes blood. That will be something to think about."
She shrugs. She doesn't need to be hale and whole an hour after they finish sparring. It's enough that it should take a matter of days, perhaps. "I've had much worse," she assures Vergil. She barely passed out long enough for him to finish showering and make food. That's nothing.
When there aren't any signs that Mizu finds the food disagreeable, Vergil is willing to begin eating himself. He didn't really want to start digging in only to be interrupted by needing to fix something else for him. Not that there were an exorbitant amount of options to offer as an alternative, but it was more important that Mizu got some food in him than Vergil. He's not nearly as tentative as Mizu when it comes to picking up and taking a bite of his burger. It's also probably a bit of a contrast to how Vergil is about most things as he's not prim and proper about it even no one reasonable could necessarily accuse him of eating in a slovenly manner. He has to lick one corner of his mouth to clean it from some of the condiments.
As he chews his bite, he listens to Mizu's answer to his question. Based upon it, Vergil privately concludes that this must be a limit to the healing ability. While Vergil's own healing happens instantaneously and without thoughtβmore a natural consequence of his biology than anything elseβMizu's requires a little more cognitive effort. He has to focus his attention in some manner to be successful with it. Therefore, if he's unconscious or in too much pain or in some altered state of mind, it won't be as successful. It's something for Vergil to take note in how he chooses to approach their future fights. He might not need to hold back quite as much as he did before, but to Vergil's mind, it's a negligible difference. The outcomes would be the same as they would be without the healing factor in that circumstance.
Vergil swallows and shifts to holding the burger in one hand as he picks up a fry from his plate. He tips his head a little and his brow furrows slightly at Mizu's reassurance.
He keeps doing that. Trying to reassure Vergil.
The half-devil doesn't know what to make of it because it's not as though he's worried per se. Mizu is upright, talking, eating, and he doesn't look quite so close to passing out with every movement. Vergil is only doing the sensible thing and asking for his own perspective though, and the offer of a place to rest and recuperate is the decent thing to do. Nothing that should merit any sort of concern for Vergil's thoughts or feelings.
"Unsurprising," he says before popping the fry in his mouth. He pinches at the napkin with his fingers to clean them before pushing a few still-drying strands that fell with the movement of his hand back to where they belong. Once the fry is gone, he says, "I think if we had met when I was younger, I wouldn't have been so quick to assume humans were all so weak."
There's a small beat before he adds, "But I may have also assumed all of them were quite stupid."
He's teasing. Not that just anyone would necessarily pick up on the barest of lilts in his tone to indicate as much. To some, it'd probably sound like a genuine insult and more of a display of Vergil's sense of superiority. But Vergil trusts Mizu can tell the difference. Besides, he already expressed that he thought what Mizu did today was reckless and stupid, and Vergil was never one to belabor a point.
Admittedly, Mizu would reassure anyone who asked she was fine even were she on the edge of death, definitely if all that was at risk was passing out for a day or two. She's fine. She's always fine, even when she's not fine. No one need ever concern themselves with her. Taigen wanted her well enough to duel to the death. Ringo didn't want to redo his stitches. That isn't really about her. Vergil makes sure she doesn't die and requires her to be well when she fights him. The rest doesn't have to concern him. She's not dead or about to expire. This, all this, is polite but unnecessary.
Including the food. Mizu eats the strange sandwich. That's not hard after the last half year. It's filling, and she's famished the more she eats. Though she eats tidily, it seems gone in a few bites. Mizu glances down at her hands when Vergil compliments her on not being weakβthat is what he's saying, basing his opinion on humans on her. Something that would make so many people in Japan laugh. They don't all consider her human. Many of them consider her weak. Mizu knows better.
A smile grows, amused, when he continues. "People are quite stupid," Mizu says, "Every one that I've met. If someone doesn't appear stupid, wait and they will reveal themselves."
The vegetable takes a little longer, if only because each slice is eaten individually with the hands. It's over fairly quickly however. She could probably eat a second one, but that might not be the best idea. By the time she gets home, however, she'll have room to eat more. She watches Vergil, including him in that group. People. He might not be human, but he's a person. The urge to grapple him, to prove she can pin him, rises as it often does with people. Only Mizu knows better than to think she'd win at that right now, even with the surprise. Give her time, Vergil. Give her time.
"I've always been like this," Mizu says, "I simply wouldn't be as experienced if you met me when I was younger." She believes that, those early lessons against blood soaked Chiaki, the assassin who used her broken blade for years, showed how much more she had to learn. Once skilled, it took experience to get where she is now. Her skill with the naginata, Mizu doesn't like to dwell on it, but Mikio taught her well. She can give him that much credit. Mizu took it further, a way to have a sword and a naginata in one weapon. Superior to only one or the other.
Vergil eats slower than Mizu, although his attention is also more evenly divided between the burger and the fries. He also pauses for a moment to clean his hands with a napkin after he finishes it, using the clean end to also wipe at his mouth as well just in case. He crumples it up afterward and holds it in his hand while he continues to pick at his fries. But all-in-all, it's a positive sign that Mizu has enough of an appetite to finish the burger with as much speed as he does.
"I would have likely found you vexing and wouldn't have had the patience for your foolishness," he says. He's proud still, but he was prideful then. A son of Sparda who was ready to take what was his no matter the cost would have been insulted at a human with no power and little experience or skill to show for it trying to challenge him. Not that Vergil imagines it would have dissuaded Mizu at all. In his experience, the irritating ones have a tendency to refuse to give up. He would have just kept trying again and again and again just as he does now. The difference is, however, Vergil has an understanding of why Mizu refuses to give up on the notion that he might best Vergil someday, and why he's willing to continue throwing himself into a fight he may never actually win again and again and again. That understanding subsequently lends itself to an appreciation and a degree of respect. Things, that in his younger years, Vergil never would have held towards Mizu. The frustration and irritation would have, at most, lead to a sort of resentful curiosity.
He hums in light amusement at how much they probably wouldn't have gotten along, the barest flicker of a smile as he takes one last fry from his own plate. He stacks his plate atop Mizu's now empty plate, and says, "You may have the rest."
He's not actually so full from the cheeseburger that he can't finish his few remaining fries. But seeing as how Mizu didn't complain about the meal, Vergil has no trouble parting with the rest for Mizu to get a little more food in his stomach. After he pops his final fry into his mouth, Vergil wipes his hands clean with his crumpled napkin and places it on the tray where his plate used to be.
Few people wait for the foolishness to stop having patience for her. It'd be a pleasant surprise to have it be her own fault. Something stupid and dumb. Somethingβ
not like letting Akemi get taken back to her father. It felt terrible but was likely the best option for her. She didn't know about Fowler's plot at that point, and even with it, Akemi was getting out of there. She stood by her deal with Ringo. Akemi's fine. The girl made her choices. It's up to her, not Mizu. Mizu is only responsible for herself. Ringo shouldn't have expected anything better. She was clear with him up front. A demon's path. Mizu doesn't want to dwell on those thoughts. It isn't the sort of foolishness Vergil means. Better to think of how entertained and exasperated he might be when the brothel was attacked and Mizu got stuck under the door. She got out, no suffocation for her. In a way the door protected her in ways she'd otherwise be vulnerable on the ground beneath so many opponents.
"Then it's a good thing we were not brought here when we were younger," Mizu suggests. At least she has one, almost two, kills down on her list. The ones she could manage on her own. She didn't need the fox spirit's help before now, so there's no reason she'd come earlier. They butt heads from time to time now, but that's with some understanding and respect for each other. Mizu's seen how far beyond human Vergil is, and he doesn't have the sword he's been looking for since the day they arrived. While it may be an emotional attachment to the sword, Mizu has no doubts it's as remarkable a sword as Mirage Edge. She needs to beat him before that happens. Part of the impetus to get this healing ability.
She must look really hungry since Vergil gives her the remainder of his vegetables. A small nod. Mizu continues to eat them one at a time. She's always hungry after they spar. She goes all out, not only in so far as the injuries she will take over the course of the fight but how little energy she works to conserve. It does no good if she's dead, so a true fight, one that matters, gets that commitment. This time, Mizu is slower. There won't be more after this for a little while, and her body needs to be ready for that. Not that Mizu ever starves in Folkmore. She keeps enough Lore on her spoon to summon emergency supplies, including food.
"This was good," Mizu says, "Weird, but good." She manages not to thank him again for it. Etiquette is one of the easiest things to fall back on when she needs a tool, but Mizu isn't otherwise an especially polite person. Vergil doesn't operate on the same rules Japan does, so it isn't as useful. It simply leaves her with little to go on when she doesn't want a repeat of the disastrous ending of the last conversation they had in his room.
She motions across the room toward the books since he mentioned reading at the bonfire. "Are those yours or from the library?" Mizu asks. In her day, only the very rich had scrolls. Most people relied on stories shared aloud. Most people didn't even know how to read.
Weird, but good is an odd bit of praise to receive, but it is praise all the same. Vergil accepts it silently and without remark. It's only a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement that the food was at least acceptable. When Mizu motions towards his books, Vergil looks towards them.
"Mine," he says. Not that he has anything against the library. He's spent plenty of time with books there, too. But there's something incredible about having a tangible book that's all his own again after so long being without. Not that Vergil doesn't recognize on some level how foolish that is. They are just printed words on a page. They're not exactly some prized treasure decked in jewels and other precious metals. But they are his. And he finds a richness in them that he can't really find an equivalent anywhere else. He glances back at Mizu as he continues, his eyes drifting over toward his balcony instead and the world beyond, "I read a lot as a child. Poetry, mostly."
Vergil lightly folds his arms once more, crossing his ankles as well. It's not out of defensiveness, however. He just can't exactly think of the last time anyone ever took an interest in his reading habits, let alone that he spoke of it with someone else. Dante never understood it, always wanting to be rough and tumble, and play. He found reading tedious, and poetry even more so. Vergil begged his parents constantly to read to him before he was able to read for himself. In all honesty, he doesn't know if his father would have been as interested talking about it with him. He was gone too soon after Vergil began learning to read for himself. But his mother was always willing to sit with Vergil while he read. She never seemed disinterested or annoyed whenever he decided to tell her about the books he was reading. And she never was put out when even well after he could read, Vergil would still ask her to read to him.
He lifts his chin, opting not to dwell on it, and looks at Mizu.
"I spent most of my adolescence reading on clues about my father's power. Most of it was the same story, just little variations." Clearly not something Vergil would have read for the very pleasure of it, that's for certain. "After that... Reading wasn't really something I was able to do."
It's a skirting around the full truth of everything that came after he tried to seize the power of Sparda for himself. But Mizu didn't ask for all of that, and Vergil would much rather not talk about it. So, he doesn't. Instead, he says with a casual wave of his hand, "But I have more time here. So, I thought I might as well fill it with books and poetry."
Mizu isn't sure how much books cost in Lore, but she knows she cannot summon the right one to tell her everything she needs to know so vaguely. She's better off using the library and sometimes talking with a librarian. Months in the library. She's basically becoming a scholar of London. A shocking turn of events compared to the rest of her life. Her reading skills are much better than when she arrived.
She listens to Vergil, however, because he loved books from childhood. He comes from a childhood with books in it. Given how powerful his father was, that shouldn't be surprising. It's the rich and powerful men (and demons) who have libraries. It matches the pride and the search for power, in so much as that more frequently comes from men in those parts of society. Taiden has ambition, and he has pride. It's the pride of someone scraping to prove himself and drag himself up, rather than one who was born to be there. That might have made Mizu dislike Vergil, except they discussed it in the context of their mistakes costing so many people their lives. It felt different, even if it was something they had to share to ever leave that library. Now, it seems, the two closest people to her in Folkmore come from that wealthy kind of background. Vergil. And Rin.
Vergil's adolescence is particularly relatable to her current activities. It speaks to where they are in their journeys. Vergil no longer is trying to amass as much power as possible, but Mizu still walks the path of revenge. At best, she'll soon be half done. The second half of such journeys are likely harder than the first. They only ever get harder. A small sigh. She has enough difficulty learning about London. She can't imagine trying to learn the truth behind his father's power, something that would be a much more guarded secret. No jealousy there, strange as it is to learn about a place around the world that she's never been to and for which so much information is about the future.
"It's what you like, so it makes sense you would," Mizu says. She's never cared about poetry herself, but she doesn't say so. No need to insult what Vergil likes. It's not like Mizu's been exposed to much poetry in her life. She leans back against the wall, more interested in Vergil than the books themselves. "What do you like about them?"
Better to let him talk on the matter. Mizu can listen. Not everyone is as single minded as she is, and Vergil had more exposure to various things before his life went to shit than she did living in a shack in the woods. Her stories were always of the bad men who would find her if she went outside.
It's a question that takes Vergil a little off-guard, resulting in him opening and closing his mouth without saying anything at all at first. It's not that he doesn't necessarily know why he likes his books and his poetry. For as little insight as he's proven himself to have when it comes to certain aspects of his internal world, he knows why he likes what he reads specifically and just the act of reading alone. But no one has ever asked him the question before both given that he had given it up as a hobby at such a young age and because he isolated himself for so long. So, he's never anticipated anyone would ask never mind actually had to articulate the answer before.
"When I was a child, I liked it because it was something I didn't have to share with Dante. We're twins, so we were expected to share most everything together."
Albeit, Vergil always felt more pressure around sharing with Dante than the other way around. Dante was always so happy to let Vergil have anything, and he could never particularly understand why Vergil rarely reciprocated. Even when it was things he wasn't all that interested in like Vergil's books, he couldn't understand why Vergil didn't want to let him have them and why he'd get so angry with Dante every time he'd hide one of Vergil's books on him.
"I used to mark the things I didn't want Dante touching with a 'V'," he says, drawing the letter in the air with a finger. "Although in hindsight it was a foolish choice. It just told him which things of mine he needed to try and steal from me in order to get my attention if I kept refusing to play with him.
"Anyway, he was never much for reading. He thought it was boring, and couldn't understand why I'd rather read than play and train with him. So, the books and poems were something for me."
But it certainly grew to be more than just avoiding his brother's insistence to fight with their wooden swords, or establishing something for himself as time went on. And it wasn't even about that sense of escapism either. It was actually more about seeking a connection more than anything. Vergil found an emotional world in his reading. One that he's known so very little about in his daily life as even as a child, he found himself struggling to articulate all that he felt and saw. It's why he fell in love with Blake's poems, works that dealt with both the beautiful and uglier sides of nature and life. Vergil briefly mulls over how much of that to share, how much of it is even relevant or something Mizu would even care to know even if he did ask the question what it was about books and poetry that drew Vergil's interest before he answers.
He looks back over towards the balcony.
"I have never been...particularly skilled when it comes to connecting with others. Even as a child, I would watch Dante befriend almost anyone and I could never understand it. How he drew people in and spoke to them so easily as if they had been friends the entirety of their lives.
"But I found that connection for myself in poetry. Blake, in particular."
And then his mother was killed, and he presumed his brother was dead, and that the same fate was about to befall him as well. And the devil awakened within him, and he survived, but he swore off such connection, such emotion. It was weakness to be so human, so connected that he would grieve anyone ever again, that he would ever allow himself to be reliant upon those connections for his own protection and well-being. The colder he was able to be, the stronger he was, he thought. And so he spent years on his own, refusing help, refusing to hide who and what he was. He fought viciously for his survival, and he remained so single-minded in his pursuit of power that he let all else fall by the wayside.
"I wanted more of it, so I read as much as I could."
Mizu smiles at Vergil's response. As little as she expected to stun him with such a basic question, it amuses her greatly. That alone makes asking worth it, even as she understands the isolation and loneliness inherent in the reaction. It's only surprising if it has never happened, if it is thought it never would happen. Sad, yes, but they're both cut off from people. Separate. No one honestly asks such questions of them. Rather than be sad about it, however, Mizu enjoys Vergil's surprise. One day she'll see that face when they spar.
Siblings or other young people not trying to beat the shit out of her is... a foreign experience for Mizu. It sounds like the kind of thing that must be normal to other people. It's like peering through the slats in her shack as a child and seeing the village children play together. Something observed not experienced, not fully understood. Dante reminds her a little of Ringo and his insistence in following Mizu, joining her, and coming along on her quest. Not the same, mind, but it's the closest she has to someone bothering her when she repeatedly tells them to go away.
She finishes eating the rest of Vergil's vegetables while he talks. The way he looks away, looks distant, when he continues leads her to still. Mizu wipes her hand on the napkin and sits quietly. While it makes so little sense to her that connection could be found in words on a page, Mizu understands the difficulty connecting with others. How much she tried when she still gave a damn about it. It takes effort not to mull over certain events, certain mistakes in her past. She won't think about them. Better to rip open her side again than revisit foolish moments.
Mizu gazes at Vergil's books and tries to see what Vergil said he found there. Her reading has been factual accounts. What stories she's read, she's focused on the details about London, not on connection and people. That superfluous information. None of it has been poetry. Mizu notes the name Blake and looks back at Vergil. The point is what it did for him. There's no expectation it would ever do the same for her. She found herself a different way.
That way doesn't involve words. Mizu's glad to listen to Vergil speak about his interest in books, in poetry, but she doesn't know what to say. Conversation isn't a skill she's developed or needed. "I didn't know you could find that in books," Mizu says, "I didn't grow up with them."
Mizu's still not sure she could find that in books, but she hasn't tried. Connection isn't what she seeks. Connection is for other people. Even, it seems, Vergil. He's in a different place than she is, no longer simply seeking power (though his continued work to regain his sword relates to it). He has room for more in his life. Poetry again. Connection. Vergil and Rin, in their own ways, have been in similar places to Mizu, but they both are in different ones now. Something past, pushed beyond, the goal itself. It raises the question: what happens after? If Mizu kills Fowler and Routley and Skeffington. She doesn't know. If she survives the process, she can figure something out then, though she will be far from anyone she's met in Folkmore at that point. These connections, what little they are, will be gone. That shouldn't matter. It doesn't. The ache is simply her wounds not fully healed.
"Then again, all I did in my youth was make knives and swords and practice my swordmanship."
Vergil hums thoughtfully as Mizu acknowledges he never really had the opportunity to read books. It's not entirely surprising given that Mizu comes from a much earlier era than Vergil, and that he's never once come across as someone born into wealth. Wealth likely could not have necessarily entirely protected Mizu from the suffering that he endured, but it could have very well buffered him from much of it. Therefore, the chances that Mizu received any sort of formal education was unlikely. He learned what he needed to learn to survive long enough to begin enacting his revenge. Nothing more. Nothing less. Even his interest in swordmaking likely stemmed from his desire for revenge than wholly an interest in the craft itself. Otherwise, he probably would have stayed much as Vergil would have stayed with his books and poetry.
He sets the pitcher of water on the nightstand for Mizu to be able to still refill his glass as needed before gathering up the tray.
"Even if you did grow up with books, you didn't have a need for them," he says as he stands up. And Mizu isn't the sort of person to waste his time on something he doesn't place value in. "You had your smithing instead."
Vergil steps away to the kitchen, tossing out the used napkins.
"Have you considered smithing more while you're here?" Vergil asks as he sets the plates in the sink and opens the cabinet from where he pulled the tray out. Vergil feels like he already knows the answer. Mizu's never been unclear about his focus on his task of revenge. Swordsmithing doesn't exactly align so neatly with that beyond the ability to repair his own weapons as he continues to train both sharpening and maintaining his skills. But he would like to be surprised by hearing otherwise. So, he asks regardless of the certainty that hasn't likely crossed Mizu's mind all that seriously.
Neither smithing nor swordplay can be learned from a book. Moving the body, completing the actions right again and again and again. That's how one learns. Master Eiji had her make a thousand kitchen knives before she ever approached a sword. They sold. There's no whirlwind of kitchen knives in swordfather's home waiting to make a pincushion of Vergil or anyone else. As much boring work as there was sweeping up and putting tools away, Mizu remembers it all fondly. Every single time Master Eiji hit her on the head with tongs. They were good years. She left when she needed experience more than practice with the sword. When she thought she was ready (and had enough experience).
Mizu sips more of the water and watches Vergil go about cleaning up. She will probably leave soon. She can walk, and Vergil doesn't need her imposing on him, his space, or his time. He's been more than fair. Still, she wouldn't have minded if he stayed sitting there longer.
"I am making a sword for someone," Mizu says, "They were searching for someone who can make katana, rather than simply summon one, and he's going to pay me in Lore." Mizu smiles, almost a smirk, at Vergil. She knows Vergil works hard to build up Lore, to have enough Lore to regain Yamato. Here she is getting paid half the cost of her healing ability to make a single sword.
"It's ensuring I make sure the forge is set up just right. I'm approaching the work as Master Eiji taught me, though I admit he's never had to make a sword for someone from another world. I'm curious to see how well I match it to him." His words about her sword, about it being too pure, too brittle, ring in her mind. Sephiroth's sword will not break on him. She'll see to it.
The near-smirk about earning Lore for his swordsmithing earns Mizu a flat look from Vergil over in the kitchen. They both know why he's smiling and what he's teasing about, but Vergil doesn't give him the satisfaction of getting a further rise out of Vergil than just a look. Looking at the dishes in his sink, Vergil opts to leave them for after Mizu leaves. He has, after all, more to clean than just their plates.
"And how exactly do you match a blade to a person?" he asks as he moves the pan, cutting board, and knife to the sink.
Vergil isn't ignorant to the idea of a blade matching its wielder. Yamato was his father's blade once and Vergil's own son has wielded it as well. But he would be lying if he attempted to deny he feels a stronger claim to it than anyone else in his bloodline, including his father. By now, Vergil has full command of the Yamato's power. When he wields it, the sword is an extension of him and his will. Vergil moves with grace and speed, the blade itself enhancing his own natural abilities further. And when he transforms, the blade and its scabbard become physical parts of him. There is, in some ways, no separating Vergil from Yamato or Yamato from Vergil. Not for long. But Yamato isn't an ordinary blade made purely of steel by the hands of everyday men, and it wasn't forged with Vergil in mind. When Sparda divided his power into the blade, it was so that the gate between worlds could be properly sealed, not with the intention of one passing the blade down to a son. Vergil's connection with the blade came far later and unintentionally.
So, the question and its associated curiosity is genuine. Vergil abandons the dishes for now to return to his spot on the bed.
Mizu does not brush the fact in further. It is what it is, and Mizu has neither interest nor the character to hide the fact she's getting paid for her work. It inherently brings up what Vergil's doing, and well, it is amusing. She's not sure there is the same demand for poetry... or that Vergil writes it. Interaction is not easy for either of them, or it would not matter.
The question is simple but difficult at the same time. No matter how many times Master Eiji explained it or how many swords she saw made, it's not so easy to define. It requires a deep understanding of the warrior, while a swordsmith also will not observe them live in combat. Master Eiji cannot see at all but manages to understand simply touching someone as they go through their moves, an ability Mizu could not match. He is incredible, far beyond anything else she has seen.
"In its most basic form, you need to understand how a blade will be used," Mizu explains, "You have to observe their techniques. Master Eiji refused to make a sword for anyone who would not demonstrate each and every one of his techniques, even the secret ones. Some refused, so they did not get swords." That's the simplest most basic level. A sword must be suited to the ways it will be used. However, that could lead to the same sword for every student of the same dojo, a most laughable idea.
"Those observations also reveal temperament, preferences, ticks, and other expressions of who a warrior is. Though in truth, every interaction with someone before making them a sword feeds into the understanding of them and what suits them." That's only the observations, not how it comes out in the sword.
"There are hundreds of decisions that go into making a sword, and each of them affects the outcome. Even what wood you burn to heat the metal, each piece of wood I mean, not only the kind of tree or the dryness of the wood. I don't know that I could explain each decision I make throughout the process, but attuning yourself to it and ensuring your mind is in the right state. You have to empty yourself and..."
Mizu doesn't have the words. She knows when it's right.
"You let the sword be what it should be."
A wholly unsatisfactory answer, she is sure. No one asks Master Eiji how he does it, only satisfied that he does. She learned from him, a thousand little lessons along with the larger ones. Mizu shrugs.
Vergil sits facing Mizu this time, one knee resting on the bed while the ankle is propped up by the opposite knee. He doesn't fold his arms this time, one hand resting over his ankle while the other rests upon his thigh. Without the need to sit upright for food and the odd sense of vulnerability associated with answering Mizu's earlier question, Vergil's overall posture and demeanor is a little more relaxed and casual. He's attentive while Mizu explains, allowing him the space to think of how to articulate it to someone who has no experience in such matters when he seems to need it. He's quiet for a moment longer after Mizu explains it to him, but not because he finds it unsatisfactory. Rather he's mentally comparing the process to that of making a Devil Arm.
His father's blades would be perhaps the closest comparison. Others are a little less comparable given that they require another demon to suffer defeat and submit to the will of its better for its continued survival. But rather than steel, they were forged of Sparda's power, and rather than to match its wielder, they were matched to a purpose given that the wielder was the same as the creator. But even those small differences make the processes seem incompatible. Sparda putting himself into his blades was not an extension of something more metaphysical like what Mizu describes. It was merely funneling raw power and manifesting it. Then again, that woman... What was her name? Vergil's brow furrows a little as he tries to recall it. Nico. Nico had been capable of forging Devil Arms. The arms that Nero used and the hat she gifted Dante had seemed appropriate to each of them. Perhaps there is some overlap that Vergil just cannot parse entirely on his own given the only Devil Arms he's possessed he either inherited or forged after defeating the devil whose power he was taking for himself.
"I'm sure you will make a blade that matches him," he says, breaking his quiet and lifting his gaze back to Mizu. "You're attentive in battle. You read my moves better each time we cross blades and apply that knowledge well. I imagine you'll understand him well enough, too, to make a blade that suits his needs."
Hopefully, Mizu will not need to explain her process to someone else. If Vergil hadn't talked about books first, she's not sure she would have explained so much. Anyone coming to get a sword could see Master Eiji tap a piece of wood for his apprentice to pick out of the pile, but they might take those action for granted. Explaining them feels far more revealing. Mizu pays as much attention to the wood she uses as she did for Master Eiji. Since Sephiroth knocked down so many trees demonstrating his technique, they gathered them. She tracked eat piece and considers which are right to use with his. It's all that wood, none of the wood she gathered before. It feels right.
A small nod at the compliment. It's not praise she's used to hearing. Even when she made the sword, it was always under Master Eiji. Except for her sword. No one complimented her on her work, especially not beforehand. They thanked Master Eiji for the sword. That was that. Master Eiji gave praise and criticism as deserved. No memory stands out stronger than the broken blade, the one Mizu assumed was her fault. Her impurity. Master Eiji identified the problem cleanly with one touch of the assassin's hands. They did not match his story. Nor, in hindsight, did his treatment of Mizu learning swordplay. Chiaki is dead now, and the stories about him will fade. The sword reclaimed. For his part, Vergil is also fair with his words. He means it.
She runs a hand over the sheath of her sword and draws it into her lap. "He didn't have a sword. He doesn't want one of the ones lying around Folkmore or that could be summoned. So I let him demonstrate his techniques using my sword," Mizu says. Her sword but not one of her make. "I could see the ways it doesn't suit him."
Not that it's a perfect match for her either. She'd need to make a sword for that. She'd need to remake it, no matter that Thirteen returned it to her whole and unbroken. Mizu knows the impurity is there and cannot wield it. Will not wield it. Nor has she remade it, though it needs remaking. They spoke about it at the bonfire. She's not sure what will make her ready.
He watches as Mizu lays his sword across his lap, his gaze dropping down to the sheathed blade. He remembers what Mizu said at the bonfire about not being ready for his true blade, and needing to reforge it. But the time wasn't right, according to him. Not yet. Silently, Vergil counts the months since they arrived. Six months. Six months and there's nothing to suggest or indicate that Mizu feels any more ready to reforge his blade and wield it anew. He looks up at Mizu again, scrutinizing him as though somehow the answer as to what Mizu feels still needs to change about him to be worthy of it. Nothing reveals itself to Vergil though. And how could it possibly when Mizu himself didn't seem entirely certain of it?
Vergil turns his hands over in his lap and summons Mirage Edge, the flat side of the blade resting in his other palm.
"This is based on one of my father's other blades, Force Edge." A blade that Vergil only ever had the opportunity to use once before he was proven not strong enough to take hold of his father's power and suffered a crushing defeat. He tries not to taste the bitter taste the memory inspires in the back of his throat and offers it to Mizu. For as many times as Mizu has been struck by Mirage Edge, he's never had the opportunity to actually examine it.
If Mizu takes it, Mirage Edge will feel no different from any other blade. It has weight and balance of its own even if it's not made from any sort of tangible materials. Without any means of sensing magic, there's nothing that belies all that Mizu has seen it can do. Really the only thing that seems to speak to its nature at all is the fact it's the same sort of warmth that had been Vergil had been exhausting when he transformed. It's almost as though Mizu has been able to physically hold the sensation of warming his hands over a fire.
"I tried to claim it for myself once, but it was not meant to be. I only came to use this phantom version of it when Yamato was..." he says, hesitating as he tries to find the right word. There are many he could use. Lost. Nearly destroyed. Broken. Ripped away. He finds a middle ground. "...Taken."
Swordfather offered Mizu a sword when she left for Edo, but she refused. She left the reforged steel in his care and said he could decide whether she was worthy of a sword when she returned. At the time, she thought it would be a short period of time, days, but with Folkmore, it has turned to months. Would he consider her worthy of a sword now? What has she done to truly earn that opinion? It is a foolish measure when she can never know the answer, but Mizu hasn't found another one. No one else's opinion matters more.
Fortunately, Vergil speaks of his sword, Mirage Edge. He summons it, and something thrums through Mizu's blood. Yet it's not that time. Little is more serious than a warrior speaking of his sword. Mizu listens with intent interest. Though the sword is more than steel, a fact Mizu's wounds time and again attest to, it is still a sword, a blade.
She accepts the sword and immediately notes the unnatural but familiar warmth. It raises the immediate, if foolish sounding, question: is the sword a part of Vergil? A sword and an extension of himself both. It would explain why he has it, why he had it when he arrived in Folkmore when the fox spirit takes everyone's weapons. Mizu tests its balance, finding the point upon which it will rest on a single point. Her movements are slow, respectful, though she wants to learn everything she can about it with a hunger that comes from making swords.
Her gaze returns to Vergil when he continues talking. It gets more difficult for him, and Mizu wonders at the circumstances under which Yamato was taken. Vergil is so strong a fighter it's hard to imagine almost anyone defeating him and taking his sword. There's no satisfaction in confirmation it's possible to defeat Vergil. She already knew she can. Instead it feels akin to the moment her sword broke in Fowler's castle. Not the same, she knows, but it's as close a moment for her as that could feel like.
"I haven't seen Yamato or Force Edge, but Mirage Edge is an incredible sword," Mizu says. Her head tilts slightly. A phantom version. "Did you... make it?"
Her heart beats faster, and Mizu awaits the answer even as she continues to inspect the sword. It's incredible, and she wants to know how such a sword is made.
There's no reaction to Mizu's compliment on his blade, but it's not out of a sense of humility or arrogance that Vergil does not react. Manifesting a blade through his own power is not anything particularly unique to Vergil, but he would anticipate a human would find it more fascinating. And even more so that Mizu of all people would find it so given his training under Master Eiji. Thus, he lets it rest as more a statement of fact than any particular praise directed towards him or otherwise. At least, that seems a little easier in allowing the words to rest as such. The last time Mizu paid Vergil somewhat of a compliment when it came to matters such as this, it hadn't ended quite as well as Mizu likely intended.
"In a sense, yes," he says, answering his question in brief first before providing the fuller explanation. "After my mother died, my demonic power had awakened. I knew my father was able to manifest his power as his blades, and I wanted to learn the same.
"My father loving humanity as he did is a rarity among his kind. Most demons would sooner use humans as fuel for their own power than even entertain the notion of anything else. So, for my father falling in love with a human woman, and siring two sons was exceptional." On its surface, it could seem as though Vergil were once again boasting about how extraordinary his father was, how disciplined he was to defy his very nature to not only see value in and protect humanity, but to have found someone among the humans to begin building a life with together. But Vergil is not propping his parents and their love upon a pedestal any more than he is truly boasting about his own power right now. It's more statement of fact than anything else. "So, I had to learn through my own methods."
There was no Master Eiji to teach and guide Vergil. There wasn't anyone. So, Vergil arguably has not learned what his father could do. But in a somewhat rare instance, Vergil doesn't view it as a failure or shortcoming on his part in not living up to the full extent of Sparda's legacy. What he's capable of doing suits his needs well, and unlike what Sparda did in forming Yamato, Rebellion, and Force Edge, Vergil will always be able to retain his power with Mirage Edge. There is no danger of it falling into the hands of another or someone Vergil did not will to wield it.
"I began with the smaller blades that you've seen, but I didn't possess such mastery over them immediately. I was only able to summon one at a time and slowly in the beginning." But as with anything, practice led to greater and greater speed and skill. Vergil eventually began to experiment as his confidence and ability grew. Now he can summon them just as easily as he draws breath, arranging them as he sees fit for each situation. "Each blade that I summon is made of my own power, including Mirage Edge. Without me, it would not exist."
So, the seemingly foolish question has an answer: Mirage Edge is a part of Vergil. It is a physical manifestation of his power and will that Mizu holds in his hands.
Manifested power. Mizu knows Vergil means that in a literal sense. Her hands are warm, warmer than being indoors ought to make them, because the sword generates heat. It is not only as though the blade hasn't finished cooling down. Even the hilt is warm. She remembers scales under her hand. Mizu hopes Vergil walks about the way he wishes to look, though she could not blame him if it is not. Undoubtedly people would judge him for that form and make assumptions about him off it. It would be even harder to earn Lore should people avoid him out of fear.
Half-demon Vergil called himself and meant it literally. Mizu doesn't know what his demons are like, but she's familiar with how people treat someone born a mix of two types that should not mix. That in Vergil's case, people think should not mix. Just as she lacked a teacher to learn swordsmanship, Vergil did not have someone to teach him to make Mirage Edge. Her admiration for Vergil increases, different though the process of manifesting his power and forging a blade may be. It underscores how much of his fancier fighting style is self-made, and Mizu smiles a little. No matter how insane fighting him is, Mizu enjoys it, and she'll enjoy it even more after this.
The urge to rise, to take a fighting stance, and to practice with Mirage Edge is there, but Mizu remains sitting. Vergil did not give her permission to do that, and she will not take liberties with his sword. She runs a hand down the flat of the blade, enjoying its warm and design. Mizu does not covet Vergil's power. She relies on what she can do, but she respects it. She respects making this. Though she's seen all she needs to see of Mirage Edge, she holds onto it a little longer. Vergil could take it back at any time, not only by etiquette or force but by will. He lets her hold it and inspect it.
"That must have been hard," Mizu says. Not a compliment or an insult. "Now you are always armed, even when a fox spirit brings you to a new world."
"On the off-chance something like that were to happen, yes," he says with a faint smile.
It's only when Mizu makes a motion to return it that Vergil will dismiss the blade. He has no issue with Mizu taking his time to inspect and admire the blade, and doing with as he wills with it. It's not as though Mizu could do anything to damage it and he certainly doesn't have command over it to begin tearing Vergil's apartment apart. Not that he thinks Mizu would consider the latter even if it were possible. Limiting themselves to just a training session with no weapons had been more out of respect for Vergil's space than concern for his still healing injuries for Mizu from what Vergil could discern. But barring Mizu attempting to return it to him, he leaves the blade entirely in Mizu's hands.
"It's arguably more useful when a swordsman with a degree of earned confidence but too much ambition decides he must make defeating me an impossible goal of his."
It's a teasing taunt and in his typical fashion, Vergil doesn't draw too much attention to it, but there is a compliment embedded in his words.
Mizu has seen and felt how Mirage Edge can be used. For much of it, she would not recommend being on the receiving end, a statement true about any decent sword. She takes those observations, including its use in hand and out, to inspect its form. The longer she has the sword, the more surprised Mizu is still to hold it. So she treats it seriously, a connection of form to function. It may be more enjoyable to wield the blade herself, at least through a series of exercises, but most people are protective of their swords, and Mizu has learned better than to need that. Besides, it's easier to see what decisions were made or how those decisions were manifested this close (this close while not being stabbed). It's never crossed her mind mid-combat to excuse herself with his sword for close inspection.
"Impossible," Mizu repeats, her eyes on the sword but nearly laughing. It hurts too much to laugh. "Arrogance like that will only set the foundation for my victory."
She looks up for a moment, a challenging gleam in her eye. "Some day you will exhaust the supply of surprises you have in store I have not seen yet. Each time you are forced to reveal one, you lose."
It's a quiet, rare sound. Few ever really get to hear it both due to the overall limited amount of company he tends to keep and his own natural demeanor, but Mizu's returned assertion earns quiet chuckle.
"Is that so?" Vergil raises an eyebrow as he reclines back ever so slightly, resting some of his weight back onto a hand. Not that Vergil had his doubts that Mizu had recovered sufficiently in the time allotted for a short nap, some meditation, and a bit of food, but the look in his eyes, that spark of his usual fire tells Vergil that he is certainly recovered well by now. It's good to see even Vergil doesn't know quite how to articulate exactly why it is. He just knows that he goes looking for it every time they clash blades. "So, you must change the parameters of defines a victory in order to secure your success by declaring what's clearly been my victory my loss instead?"
That rare laugh is its own sort of victory, though Mizu could not compare it to one with the sword. She knows Vergil is confident in his skills and abilities. Rightfully so at his level, but Mizu will get there. She will scratch and claw and bite her way better and better until she does defeat him in a way he cannot question.
"It's your actions, your choices, that see them losses. Some supernatural ability you would not otherwise use being forced upon you," Mizu says, "If you did not pride yourself on holding them back, it would be meaningless. I said it was your loss, not my success. It is but a stepping stone which I will use to defeat you."
She hadn't brought multiple grenades today. Would they have done anything to that thick scaled skin that her sword did not? What properties are needed to breach it? Could Vergil have done the same while clearly struggling from internal damage? Mizu cannot claim pleasure at seeing Vergil stagger, injured as he was, but it is useful information, information she might need to win. With all he can do, there's no such thing as fighting fair. There never was.
She runs her fingers slowly across Mirage's Edge, feeling more than she can see with her eyes. This too will help her, not that she needs that reason to get to know it so closely.
Even Vergil has to admit that Mizu's logic is sound. Vergil has been adamant about holding back his true strength during each of their sparring matches. The simple fact of that matter is that it's for Mizu's safety more than anything else. Well, that's the primary reason for it. Secondary to that, the fight would be over before it began if Vergil expended more energy into their fights than he already does, and that serves no purpose to either of them. No doubt it would not dissuade Mizu any, of course, but Vergil would find himself quickly bored of the whole affair. There would be no more fighting between them, and it would be a loss for them both even if Vergil wouldn't necessarily recognize it as such without these previous experiences.
Regardless, Vergil was pushed a little harder today. The cuts and bruises still on his body, one of the latter being so prominent upon his face, are the lingering evidence of that. Even Mizu must have noticed by now that not all of Vergil's wounds have healed or even shown any visible signs of progress towards healing since the end of their latest bout. He supposes that as much as it is a bruising to his own ego, he can understand the pride Mizu takes and why it most certainly feels like an accomplishment. Vergil will never unleash his full strength against him, and that is a fact. But today, Vergil bled and bruised, and if it wasn't for his other form today, there's no telling if he wouldn't have been the one woozy and unable to walk straight for long.
He opts not to lecture or chastise Mizu for the use of his explosives. He doesn't balk or bristle at the feeling of defeat or the beating his own ego takes over it. Nor does he offer any further praise or acknowledgement of skill. Vergil simply lets it be, deciding neither to spoil nor encourage the other swordsman's pride. Mizu could rest well in his knowledge of a job well done today, and hold it close to his chest that for as invulnerable as Vergil is to a human like him, he's capable of pushing past Vergil's defenses and abilities.
"You may try it for yourself," he says instead, nodding at Mirage Edge. He's been watching Mizu touch it and examine it this whole time, but even Vergil is aware that touch and sight can only say so much about a blade. Wielding it is the only way to know its true nature. As Vergil gives his explicit consent, Mirage Edge crackles with just a little more energy. Not enough that it looks entirely as it does when Vergil begins tapping into its power with quick slashes that carry far beyond the initial strike. It's more akin to a blade being removed from its scabbard than that. Except Mirage Edge bears no scabbard, and so the sword somewhat comes alive with power instead.
Vergil knows it won't feel natural to Mizu's hands. The blade isn't at all similar to those Mizu has likely held before beyond just its origins, but also in its design and style. But he's seen enough of what Vergil does with it to likely understand some basic movements with the blade as it is that he can experiment whether through mimicking what he's seen of Vergil or trying something of his own making or knowledge. Vergil gestures with his free hand over towards what ought to be a living area that Vergil has left open for the sake of a training space. "Over there."
There isn't much in Vergil's apartment that could be potentially destroyed with any sort of reckless swinging, but better for Mizu to have more space than necessary than any sort of restrictions all the same.
Vergil says nothing to Mizu's words, something she knows better from personal experience than to take as acceptance. It still feels a victory, steps further down the right path, the path Mizu follows in sparring with Vergil. Honestly, the restriction on not killing each other limits Vergil far more than her. Today was the closest she's come to need to be concerned with it at all, those split moments of sudden doubt. Mizu is free to fight by all means necessary, while Vergil cannot. Yet Mizu doubts that spoils any fun because she too takes only a modicum of enjoyment in defeating men far lesser than her. Usually it's more about destroying their pride and egos, after their acts of superiority to her, than anything to do with the physical feat.
Even as thoughts and memories of Shindo dojo come to her, Mizu knows Vergil does not look at her the way she looked at those swordsmen, at all those swordsmen except Taigen. (Presumably the master of the dojo could equally be a challenge if he has not grown soft, but it would take far more for him to deem to fight her, and she did not need that from him). He never would have handed over his blade, never would have... she doesn't know, so much of what they've done, if he thought of her that way. His opinion of her won't change her opinion of herself, mind, but she would be disappointed, yes disappointed, to lose his company in sparring.
Instead he offers the use of his sword. Mizu's head shoots up, and she stares openly at him, mouth dropping open a little. After a moment or so for it to sink in as a serious offer (it's Vergil, it wouldn't be like him to joke about something so serious and personal), she pushes the covers further back, unfolds, and steps out of the bed onto the floor. Her foot is much better than before, and this opportunity makes her more grateful for it than she would be otherwise. What is limping around for a while compared to getting to take Mirage Edge through its paces?
"Yes," Mizu inhales, excited.
Mizu moves to the center of the training space, takes a deep breath, and despite the pain across her ribs and continued soreness in her arm takes up Vergil's ready position, the one he usually takes with Mirage Edge. Mizu pauses and adjusts her position to make it more correct in small details. Then she works through a series of basic moves Vergil regularly uses. She stops when she needs to in order to correct the technique. It's not her usual way of moving, but this has always been how she's learned. Observing and copying others. Mizu repeats herself over and over. Each movement focused on having the correct technique more than power or speed. That can come with time and experience.
Silly perhaps, but everything else falls away. The lingering pain. The enjoyable argument with Vergil. All of it, compared to a man and a sword and copying techniques. They will not work with her sword as she has, but the fox spirit offers different weapons at different times. This work, this from the inside out, is Vergil.
Vergil suppresses a smile at Mizu's reaction to being given permission to practice with Mirage Edge. The disbelief and immediate enthusiasm is almost childlike in its earnestness and the quiet anxiety that Vergil might be joking or about to change his mind and rob him of the experience if he's not quick to take Vergil up on it. Whatever years of isolation and heartache and hardship Mizu has experienced seems to slough off him in an instant at the opportunity. He watches Mizu rise from the bed and quickly pad over to the training area to begin.
Whatever jest or teasing remark Vergil might have conjured up as Mizu begins to work through the movements that he's seen time and again from Vergil quiets long before it can reach his lips. Watching from where he's seated near the foot of his bed, Vergil is quietly impressed. For one who accused Vergil of cheating in his innate ability to understand a weapon by mere touch, Mizu is not too far off that mark himself. He's been on the receiving end of Vergil's techniques a few times now, and he moves carefully through each set of moves. Without Vergil needing to say a word, he spots his own mistakes quickly. He pauses. Corrects. Finishes. Tries again. Each repetition carries the intent of perfecting it. There is nothing else beyond Mizu and Mirage Edge, following each step that he can of Vergil's repertoire. He'd anticipated that it wouldn't be a series of undisciplined, wild swings or some dull experimentation with the balance and weight, but Vergil hadn't expected this.
It's not exactly atypical for Vergil to have nothing to say. He's always been quiet and more reserved than most, leaving others to often wonder and speculate what it is going through his mind. But now isn't a moment of Vergil's typical silence so much as it is speechlessness because he wants to say something. Anything about Mizu's dedication and attention to detail to immediately recognize his own mistakes. The grace of his movements even while still recovering from injuries and no doubt experience his own degree of soreness. Vergil uncrosses his legs so that both feet now rest on the floor, sitting up straighter with his hands in his lap as words come to him.
To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour
They are not his own words and he does not speak them. But they and their meaning settle with each pulse of Vergil's heart because it's true. There is something inherently magnificent and greater than it seems about something as mundane as Mizu running through Vergil's movements and attempting to perfect them in his replication. Something that Vergil would not likely have been able to see or understand years ago, but he can come to appreciate now.
Vergil purses his lips slightly and almost wishes they were still outside with more space. Mizu wouldn't be able to control the other things that Mirage Edge can do beyond that of a typical blade. Mirage Edge isn't a fully realized Devil Arm wherein its wielder can access the full extent of its power like that if it accepts them as its master, but Vergil would still be able to exert his will over it. It would be interesting to see if they could work so in tandem with one another like that. He itches for more, wanting to summon his clone once more to give Mizu something to practice against or hell, to spar with Mizu again himself for another exhilarating bout.
But he makes no more suggestion than he does pay a compliment. It's greedy and selfish to want more right now with the state Mizu is in. His wounds may be closed, but he's lost a significant amount of blood and he's still not yet in his peak condition once more. Pushing him past his limits and encouraging that sort of behavior would likely only lead to disaster. Perhaps not today, but eventually. Vergil glances away to look outside the balcony, drawing an intentionally slow breath and releasing it before looking at Mizu again. This is enough, he tells himself. It is enough that Mizu practices as he does now, working with the strength and skill that he now possesses.
Small sounds of focus come with the movements, with each correction. Where Mizu must correct herself more than twice, a small huff of frustration with herself, no matter the unfamiliarity of the sword or movements to what she usually does. She's seen them and felt them more than enough times to copy them. She learned to copy techniques from a single demonstrationβhaving to work through the mistakes for herself and discover the proper form by feel and memoryβso the abundance of examples from Vergil should make it far easier, along with the years of experience. That frustration melts away, however, each time she gets something right.
It's the start of properly learning both this kind of sword, in so much as Mirage Edge represents a sword made of steel in the same shape, and the techniques. Mizu hardly expects to wield Mirage Edge in sparring, much less actual fighting where her life is on the line. That doesn't matter. Learning it is in and of itself a reward. It demonstrates so much more about the sword and the way Vergil uses it. Feeling her muscles go through the movement with the right sword teaches her a great deal. Mizu could readily go through it for hours with no thought to any other considerations (it is not as though Mizu ever has plans for the rest of the day, when she spars Vergil, this being the first time she heals at all the day of).
She moves into small combinations Vergil frequently uses. It takes up more of the space at a time, but there is plenty. Mizu remains aware enough to know she won't hit anything. That's all she needs. Focused as she is, Mizu enjoys herself immensely. It carries on she's not sure how long, but her body in time shows its limits. There's some soreness, but she also feels somewhat woozy. Those aren't things that concern her terribly, save that her technique, carefully practiced, starts to slip and need more corrections. That simply won't do. Mizu will not compromise her body's learning of the moves. With some regret it's already over (already? after how long?), Mizu lowers Mirage Edge.
She walks smoothly, by force of will, back toward Vergil on the bed, bows with the sword resting across both her hands, and offers it back. Once he takes it, Mizu returns to the other end of the bed and sits. Before she practiced with Mirage Edge, she was ready to go home under her own power. For a short bit, she needs another break. That's all. It will be short before she's ready again. She's no invalid.
"Mirage Edge is incredible," Mizu says. Her face would be flush had she more blood in her body. Instead, her breathing is harder. It doesn't matter. She's lit up from within. "Very different from what I'm used to. I'd have to make a hundred terrible swords like it to finally make one of that shape and balance properly. It still wouldn't be Mirage Edge." She knows it's not steel the way her swords are.
When Mizu's technique begins to gradually slip more and more, Vergil half-expects that he will need to intervene and tell Mizu that he's practiced and experimented long enough. Thus, it comes as more of a surprise when Mizu actually brings it to an end before there can be too much sway or wobbling in his movements. Vergil still watches carefully as Mizu returns to the bed, watching for signs that he might not quite make it there after that exertion. But Mizu is steady on his feet, and he bows while returning Vergil his blade without any threats of tipping over. Even when he sits back down on the bed itself, it isn't the collapse that occurred before. Mirage Edge dissipates once more in wisps of blue smoke that disappear quickly as Vergil lowers his hands back to his lap. He supposes after a moment of recuperating from all that motion and activity, Mizu will likely take his leave then if he's recovered that much.
Vergil isn't sad or disappointed about the fact Mizu will take his leave, and return to his home in Wintermute, but Vergil can't say he's...minded this extra time with Mizu either. It hasn't been unpleasant.
"Drink," he says, nodding to Mizu's glass and the pitcher still on the nightstand. It will help with his breathing, forcing him to slow it back down to something gentler, and continue re-hydrating him after the day's activities. Vergil doesn't leave Mizu's words without a response though. Prompting him to care to his physical needs merely took some priority. "You seemed to take to it quickly. For as different as it is to you. You've been keeping a close eye on how I wield it."
Which perhaps goes without saying, Vergil finds impressive. It's one thing to watch Vergil's swordplay alone and be able to replicate it well. It's another to watch it when it's being used against Mizu and replicate it well. He was attentive to his footwork, where his hands ought to be with each movement, and how he should be angled toward and imaginary opponent. Even with Vergil's natural abilities and his own discipline, he couldn't claim to be able to do the same in return.
Mizu waves a hand at Vergil when he insists she drink water. Yes, yes, water. She knows. She would have gotten there on her own in time, if he'd provide a modicum of patience. Still, she drains the glass quickly and pours herself some more. It would be easier to be flat, lying down, than vertical for the lightheadedness, but Mizu doesn't mean to monopolize Vergil's bed all day. Nor his time. She doesn't mind however much time they spend together on a sparring day. Together or apart, she sets aside a whole day for it, so there's nothing else, no other demands on her time. The library and the forge can wait.
Her breathing is a little better, and Mizu grins tiredly at Vergil for the compliment. A small nod. It is often easy in Japan to identify the school a swordsman trained in and know what techniques he will use. Those fights take little effort as she uses the techniques that best counter that style, and that is all. It takes a particularly skilled fighter and/or an unfamiliar one to demand that much of her. But oh, what fun it is to learn by fighting someone.
"I mean to defeat you," Mizu says, "I must know how to predict what you do, down to every detail, so I can more effectively create and utilize openings and advantages. It is even better practicing with Mirage Edge to understand the movements. Not as easy to incorporate for use with my sword, but can't have things be too easy. That'd be boring."
There's few people she's meant to defeat she gets along with well, none she's explained that she's doing that. Then again, no one's been interested in or paid attention to the fact she does it.
"You've seen only a sliver of the styles I know. So many of them are useless to outright foolish against you."
Some would think it foolish to challenge him at all, Vergil thinks but gives no voice to it. Even if he were less talented or skilled with a blade, Vergil's raw strength and speed outclasses Mizu entirely. Most wouldn't likely even bother trying, and they would be quick to yield the moment the tide turned in Vergil's favor. But not Mizu. Mizu pushes forward and pushes himself hard to stay on his feet and in the fight for as long as he can manage, and it's Vergil that has to bring the fight to its end.
Instead, Vergil hums thoughtfully.
"You're beginning to sound like Dante," he says. "But I would hazard there's more truth to your words than his."
Dante and Vergil have fought one another more times than either of them could possibly count. So, Vergil could never reasonably claim that Dante knows nothing of his mind or what he might do when they fight one another. They both know each other well after all these years and conflicts between them. But Vergil would struggle to believe Dante is nearly as consciously thoughtful about it as Mizu is in navigating his knowledge of Vergil. He doesn't read Vergil as an open book as he claims. Dante moves on instinct, quick to react and change his approach if necessary, but it's never a carefully selected decision to counter what Vergil does. He doesn't intentionally bait Vergil into creating vulnerabilities that he can exploit. He's just as wild and unpredictable as Vergil is calculating and controlled. Fighting Dante is akin to taming the wind in that regard. He does as he wills for better or for worse, and perhaps that's why there's always been a part of Vergil that's enjoyed their bouts with one another. There is something of merit there with Dante's approach even if Vergil would be loath to acknowledge as much, and he knows he's doing well when he's able to defeat someone as unpredictable as Dante.
"You would find his approach more difficult to memorize than mine. He has good instinct, but that's the trouble with trying to predict what he will do."
Mizu wonders what Dante says that sounds similar and whether or not she would agree with itβor believe it. Vergil expresses some doubt, and Mizu trusts Vergil's ability to assess his own opponents. It might not be exactly true, whatever Dante says. Should he arrive, Mizu will assess his words for herself, same as she does everyone. She wouldn't take Vergil's word with blind faith.
Her smile doesn't go away. Instead it lops to one side. "I welcome Dante to arrive. I will defeat him as well, should he be willing to fight, and enjoy the process along the way. I never tire of getting better, and an unpredictable opponent forces other skills to improve."
By the time she defeats one, much less both, of them, Mizu's fathers shouldn't stand a chance. That alone would make her smile were she not already smiling. It is strange to feel so happy. The anger remains, as ever, but it isn't forefront as usual. Mizu stretches and checks how she feels. Not the best, but she can walk.
He shakes his head a little at the expression of gratitude, finding it unnecessary.
"I think you'd agree better this than the alternative of someone else finding you and making a scene over it." No doubt another Star Child would be sent into a panic to find him as bloody of a mess as he was passed out near the train station. Assuming he even made it that far, of course. Vergil isn't unconvinced that he wouldn't have made it more than a few steps before his legs gave out on him from the loss of blood alone. So, if he thinks Vergil is insistent and a pest when it comes to taking care of himself after their fights, he would be in for quite the rude awakening if anyone else with less familiarity with him were to find him. At least Vergil's willing to offer a modicum of trust in Mizu that when he says he will be fine, he's able to believe it. "I hope we can..."
He almost says see one another again, but it feels immediately foolish and causes him to stay his tongue. To Vergil, it's a childish thing to say even if he does enjoy Mizu's company and there is perhaps something here that could be considered a comradery of sorts. Besides, Mizu's focus is on his own goals and his own aims. Not to say that he hasn't been willing to lend Vergil a bit of a hand now and again or that he's been opposed to any time they spend outside of what directly links to those goals, but only a fool would entirely ignoring Mizu's motivations. And Vergil would do well to remember that, he thinks. Lest he get ahead of himself and make a less safe assumption that leads to a tension or fracture in things. He would hate to lose Mizu's company because he chose to be overzealous.
Vergil looks away for a brief moment before he corrects himself, "I hope we can spar again soon."
The sentiment is no less sincere even if it wasn't entirely what he intended to say at first.
Mizu gives an exasperated sigh at that idea. "I do not understand that attitude," Mizu says, "It's entirely different from my time in Japan. There, a woman and child might sit outside in the freezing snow, and no one will do a thing. A person can collapse injured and unconscious, and people will avoid whatever blood or organs they spill."
Mizu nearly died once because no one would give her aid, especially not someone like her. If she hadn't found her motherβ If she hadn't found the woman who first raised her, she would have died. She was a fool then, the way she got that injury. Mizu has learned better. Ah well, Mizu would not let anyone accost her terribly. At worst, she would invoke they take her to Amrita Academy, what passes as the most intensive medical care. Then, once they left, she would take her leave. That would be that.
More water before she leaves, the best no one gets the wrong idea about her ability to walk herself home. She hears the pause in Vergil's words and makes no move to leave while he chooses them. Mizu waits. Then she gives Vergil a weird look. With this healing ability, it will be soon. "We could probably spar again in a few days. Incredibly, needing to spend time at the library may become a larger impediment than anything else. I cannot count on research time on days we spar."
He briefly wonders if he's said something wrong at the way Mizu's expression shifts. Not that he had expectations for how Mizu would respond or react, but a strange look wasn't really accounted for and usually doesn't signal the correct thing has been said. However, before Vergil can begin kicking himself for fumbling with his words, Mizu indicates that it may only be a few days before they can do it again. He doesn't release the tension that crept into his shoulders though, uncomfortably folding his arms once more. That feeling of having said something wrong still eats at him, but he pushes it aside for now rather than dwelling upon it.
"You could bring books with you," he suggests. "It would give you something to do without exerting yourself too soon."
Mizu is clearly too stubborn to fully and completely rest as he probably should even with his healing ability. The fact that he was willing to lay down and sleep at all today, and the simple fact he's still seated now after a bit of minor exertion is nothing short of a miracle. But perhaps he would be less eager to bolt before he had enough immediate recovery to manage independently if he felt like the time at rest wasn't such a waste.
"We also do not always have to spar like this either. You said as much yourself that there are other ways for you to improve than merely fighting me. You also previously assured me before you'd improve your hand-to-hand. Neither time with Mirage Edge nor hand-to-hand ought to leave you unable to make use of the rest of your day."
Bringing books with her would undoubtedly extend the time she and Vergil spend together, if not paying much attention to each other, after sparring. Perhaps Vergil still wants more assurance she is not about to keel over and only tolerates her insistence she is well enough on her own. Bringing books or some other means to occupy herself would free him up to do as he pleases, and he does like books, while permitting him to keep an eye on her and assure himself the fragile human is not about to expire. That earns a rise in her mood, but it does not have time to express itself.
Time with Mirage Edge.
That simple phrase amid the conversation about alternative sparring options sends her heart racing through her chest. She will get to wield it again? His sword. Not his primary sword, no, but his sword, a sword he made. The sense of responsibility to keep watch or the desire to face a better opponent are not enough to explain such a great allowance with something so personal. Mizu has no idea what has moved Vergil to such lengths, but she dare not ask, lest that prompt him to remove his offer, his permission.
Mizu makes note to work on forging blades like Mirage Edge for practice. She can always reforge the same steel time and again. There are not enough Star Children for her to master it. She could give each a blade of questionable quality and still not have one that meets her standards. Her standards are high, higher than some people's yes, but best she make one she likes. There will be more time spent forging in her future. Oh right, conversation.
"I am improving my hand-to-hand. I'd planned to reach a certain level, but," Mizu shrugs. She can handle losing, much as she isn't used to losing while grappling, even against larger opponents. "We can always practice before then. And Mirage Edge..." There's nowhere to look to see the blade, disappeared as it is. "It would be a pleasure." An absolutely heartfelt sentiment.
She smirks. "I assure you that I have never relied solely upon fighting you to improve my skills. I set aside time daily to train. I never want my skills to rust."
Being in Folkmore doesn't appear to have lessened Mizu's desire for revenge in any meaningful way. Perhaps it is delaying it a bit in terms of direct action, but that delay does not mean much to Mizu. He's eager, but he's willing to demonstrate some patience and take advantage of the time he has here to study, learn, and train. Vergil wonders if the same would be true if he hadn't come here, but he doesn't think so. If there was a genuine barrier to Mizu pursuing his quarry, he'd seek the path forward while maintaining his skills. Obstacles could never likely dissuade something that seems to be so deeply embedded into the fabric of Mizu's being that it pulses through him with every beating of his heart.
"You would be boring if otherwise were true." It would be too stagnant in fighting Mizu again and again if there weren't signs of improvement each time, if Mizu didn't push him in his own way. "I can assure you that it's not a reflection of your skills or strength, so I don't mean it as an insult, but it's actually more difficult for me to hold back than anything else when we fight. Outside of fights and sparring as a child with Dante, every fight for me has been to the death."
He hums in light amusement as he looks away from Mizu again. In the grand scheme of his life, most were no contest. He dispatched his foes quickly and easily, usually with a single strike of Yamato. A few, however, Vergil's life was on the line, too, not just his opponent's life. There was no room for mistakes or easing up at any point during those battles, and Vergil had to use every ounce of his strength and power to see them through to the end.
"You're not the same. Each time we've fought, you've grown even if it's just a little. It keeps it...interesting. I have to rely on more than just my power alone, and the more you improve, the more I must think." He looks back at Mizu again, considering the other man for a moment before he smiles faintly and looks back outside the balcony. "I suppose in a strange sense, I almost want to see you defeat me in battle someday. For a human to have worked so hard and honed his skills so much to accomplish something like that, I would think of that as something remarkable, not shameful."
Vergil still views it as an impossible feat. As he said, he's holding back a great deal in each fight with Mizu to avoid putting an end to their sparring too early or to bring about irrevocable harm to Mizu. Even as Mizu grows and Vergil happens to find himself needing to access more of his power to maintain his victory over the other swordsman, there is still a great wealth of it not yet tapped into. It's unlikely Mizu will ever go that far as a human to result in Vergil approaching their sparring with his all. But he would not rob Mizu of the accomplishment if it were to happen. Bruised as Vergil's ego would be in the moment for losing, another part of him wouldn't see it as a shameful defeat and would be able to recognize all that Mizu would have had to do to get to that point.
"That being said, if your plan next time is more explosives, I would advise you to reconsider." He glances at Mizu out of the corner of his eye. "You reveal things as well each time we fight, Mizu, and you would do well to remember that."
He's mostly teasing, but there's also an undercurrent to which he is being sincere, too. Mizu won't be able to pull something like the stunt he pulled today again. Vergil will be prepared for it next time.
"I did not have anyone to spar with growing up, so most of my fights have been to the death," Mizu says. It's something that they have in common. "I chose to use a bokken when I fought my way through the Shindo Dojo because I needed information from its master. The students were only between me and my goal by happenstance, not by choice to serve one of my fathers." A pause. "Plus, the master would have been less inclined to give me the information I needed if I slaughtered all of his students. Better to injure and maim."
No doubt some of those men would have been fine killing her, but they were not threats. Taigen was her most worthy opponent, and still she won. There have been similar circumstances when she's chosen not to kill. The hunt for information and the hunt for her fathers are not the same. A reputation as such a killer would impede her, not help her. Mizu is not the Four Fangs. She has no desire to be.
Vergil is much harder to kill than most men, so Mizu hasn't had to hold back the way she knows he is. After all, he could have been in that warmer form with thus far impenetrable scales the whole time. Instead, he usually works to avoid, block, or parry her attacks. When she manages to injure him, he heals quickly, so it doesn't limit him for long in their fights. Except for the explosion today. Mizu had bet he could survive it, and she was right. That said, she can still see the evidence of what it cost him today. Today. Mizu believes Vergil will be better prepared for it in the future. She still smiles at his words. "You would be boring if otherwise were true," she repeats back at him. "I will not promise the presence or absence of explosives. Though I remember our promise not to kill each other. The last opponent I used an explosive on, I stuck it in his neck. I deemed that too likely to kill you if successfully carried out."
She's mostly teasing, but Mizu cannot forget those moments when she thought she was wrong and that she'd gone too far. When Vergil's double disappeared, and she was left alone in the street unsure whether he were alive or dead. It may be much rarer for her to need to hold back on her attacks, but as determined as she is, as ferociously as she fights, Mizu never forgets her aim is not to kill him. He is not her enemy.
"Don't worry. You'll get to see something that remarkable one day. I'll make sure of it."
Even if they could have some form of appreciation for Mizu's restraint, most would probably be horrified at the notion that they just narrowly avoided having their heads blown from their necks because Mizu happened to have thought it through in the moment. Vergil holds no such horror. He's asked for Mizu to give it his all during their fights, only holding back from exerting a lethal force. Such considerations should cross Mizu's mind if he has any chance of forcing Vergil to genuinely yield. So, at the mention of it rather than looking at Mizu with disdain or anger over the matter, Vergil merely rolls his eyes.
Honestly, he thinks if Mizu's temperament were different, he'd likely prefer the company of Dante over Vergil if he has the mind for such stunts as that. Then again, Vergil is of his own temperament and he... Well, he minds his brother a lot, but he can't truthfully say he dislikes his brother's company. But Dante is not here. It is Vergil alone. So, Mizu doesn't really get his pick as it were.
"Time will tell one way or another," he says, agreeing as far as he's willing to possibly agree to the notion that Mizu will ever best him.
Vergil wouldn't say that he's sad or disappointed by the time Mizu eventually leaves. They fought well today and the conversation afterward didn't feel like such an uncertain mess afterward as some of their others had in the past. If anything it was...nice. Pleasant even when occasionally coupled with less pleasant memories and thoughts. Easier than expected.
He doesn't offer to walk Mizu to the train station, having felt he infringed upon the other swordsman's dignity enough by carrying him to the apartment in the first place. Thus, he only walks him to the door out of politeness rather than concern, but he does linger by his door for a few moments longer after the door is closed behind Mizu. The half-devil listens to Mizu's footfalls to be certain they remain steady in gait and pace, satisfied before Mizu can even leave his earshot. Vergil steps away then to attend to the dishes he'd neglected in favor of Mizu's company. As he walks from the front door to the kitchen, he glances into his training area. He remains fastidious and focused as always as he cleans the dishes and eventually changing out the sheets on his bed, but his mind drifts easily again and again to Mizu wielding Mirage Edge.
Mizu doesn't mean to wind up in the desert at all, much less with Vergil. The cold is the better environment for her, so the idea, when she'd seen him on the train, had been to head into Exile. It was the next stop, and she didn't want to be so rude to other passengers as to spar on the train itself. However, the environment seems to have other ideas. Cruel Summer in the summer it is. Thankfully, it leads to a series of abandoned buildings not too slowly. Mizu steps inside one and holds the door open for Vergil. If it's some kind of trial to separate them, it won't work.
"This'll do," Mizu says plainly. It will be the first time they spar with her new sword. She's ready to go and takes up a decent position, sword not yet drawn. Her attention goes to behind Vergil, and in a quick motion, she draws her sword, still sheathed, and accelerates past him to slam it into a ghost aiming for his back with unfriendly intentions, if she had to guess. Possibly, it aimed for her, and Vergil was only in the way. Mizu isn't sure.
What's for certain is that it draws the attention of other ghosts. Mizu groans, annoyed. "Get your own sparring partners."
Vergil had not yet even manifested Mirage Edge when Mizu launches himself forward to deal with the unfriendly specter at his back. Vergil's temperament aside, he's able to remain calm and still when Mizu makes his approach because he can see quickly that he is not the other swordsman's target. Mizu's eyes are trained elsewhere, not on the devil before him. He watches Mizu as he drifts past Vergil to strike the ghost instead, only summoning Mirage Edge when it would appear they've garnered more attention than just the individual ghost.
"From the looks of it, you could use the warm-up." He's teasing, of course. If they can't cross blades just yet, they may as well still have their banter if nothing else. Vergil scans among the ghosts to get a general count of how many seem prepared now to go on the offensive. It seems a few opt to flee rather than fight, but there are still plenty yet that appear to be gathering themselves up. Vergil positions himself just behind Mizu and looks over his shoulder at him. "Still, let us dispense of this trash quickly so that we might move onto more important matters."
"They aren't worthy of my blade," Mizu declares. Indeed, that's the reason she uses her weapon sheathed. It takes far more than a shade for her to draw it. These spirits don't have the same type of corporeal form. The sheath works as well as the blade as the sharpness doesn't matter. Mizu wants to save the real deal for Vergil, someone who has proven himself worthy of it.
She nods, turning her head slightly toward Vergil. "Agreed."
The room is cool and dark, with light only filtering through a few slats. Mizu isn't immediately certain what sort of place this building used to be. It's appears old enough not to belong to the living. Like they're the trespassers. Mizu dispatches her ghosts in rapid succession and winds up by theβ
place where the door had been. It's become a solid wall. "Oh, they want us to stay. They like us a bit too much."
Mizu is quite obviously clear that Vergil holds himself back significantly when they spar. The dream wherein he fought Dante with everything that he had despite his exhaustion and injuries was likely illuminating enough to that fact. But he certainly sees no reason to toy with the ghosts that mean them harm. Vergil is precise with every stroke of his blade. What he does not catch with Mirage Edge, the summoned blades are quick to pin the ghosts to wherever it is they mean to stand.
"They'll come to regret that."
Although, Vergil cannot help but notice there doesn't seem to be any signs of an end to these ghosts. Their forms dissipate and seemingly wisp away when delivered what would likely constitute a mortal blow were they still alive, but either there's a significant number of spirits here or they just need a few moments to return for more. The answer perhaps doesn't matter entirely too much in the grand scheme of things when it seems the ghosts are not to be discouraged. The bottom line is they cannot fight these ghosts ad infinitum. Mizu will tire first and Vergil will do the same eventually. So, Vergil reverses his grip as he draws Mirage Edge behind him, lowering his stance as he pours his infernal energy into Mirage Edge. His aim is to take a few of the ghosts out, of course, but he also seeks to simply cut their way out of the building if that's what it will take. It seems unlikely to work if Thirteen has had her hand in any of this, but it merits experimenting nonetheless.
Of all the times to not have Yamato...
But he can't dwell on it and he must work with what they have at hand. Once Mirage Edge has crackled into enough life and before the ghosts can close in on him, Vergil swings the blade and releases the energy in the same formation that had once shredded Mizu's side towards the nearest wall.
Her experience with fighting spirits was nonexistent before coming to Folkmore, but Mizu's gained some since. In all her reading on London, she's spared a little about spirits themselves. Her sword and its sheath are steel. Mirage Edge a combination of steel and Vergil's power. If those were enough, she wouldn't see some of the spirits return so quickly. Her reading, combined with the knowledge Thirteen's trials usually provide the means, lead her to look around the room as well.
What feels like half the room explodes with Vergil's power, channeled through Mirage Edge. Her side nearly winces in sympathetic injury. It clears a path to another room, however, so Mizu follows in the wake of the incredible damage it caused into the next room. That's clearly what Vergil intendedβone step to getting out of this place and away from the ghosts. One step back toward what matters more.
Thanks to the explosion, the next room is messy, large splinters going into everything. It's another business of some kind, with a long counter along one wall and a selection of glass jars in the wall behind it. Perhaps an herbalist? It doesn't matter. What's important but is that it has a hearth. The fire is long out, the ashes cold and gray. Beside them, however, is an iron poker. Mizu grabs it, adjusts her grip, and slashes out at the nearest ghosts that trailed after her with reaching arms. The iron goes right through them, and they disappear in a wail.
"There's a door at the back," Mizu points out, "if you feel like using those." A grin.
Vergil waits until Mizu is over the threshold of the next room before he darts in after him faster than Mizu can likely see easily. The mess Vergil creates lingers all over the floor and old furniture that's seen better days, but the path he cut through to the next room is gone in an instant. He narrows his eyes, placing a hand against the wall to find it just as sturdy as it likely had been before Mirage Edge had its way with it. So, they're trapped in a series of rooms filled seemingly to the brim with specters that mean them varying degrees of harm with the only way to go seemingly being forward.
If this is one of Thirteen's trials, Vergil finds it immediately tedious. Then again, that judgment could be easily clouded by the fact he was promised a different fight than this one that anything less is going to leave him unsatisfied.
"Very funny," he says, wrinkling his nose as he whirls Mirage Edge around, stabbing behind himself as one of the ghosts phase through the wall after them. He frees Mirage Edge from the wall, not bothering to see if it repairs itself once more and nods for Mizu to lead the way then. He spares a glance at Mizu's newfound weapon. "Iron is it?"
It feels better using another weapon besides her sword. These spirits seem riled up about something, either because they brought steel weapons with them or something unrelated at her best guess, but like a bokken the iron poker lets her use another weapon. The poker may even be more effective.
"Not a solid set of tongs, but it'll do for spirits," Mizu says. She opens the door, which swings as is common in Folkmore instead of slides, and bows to motion Vergil through. Nothing so far has been a great danger to them, only serious in that they cannot ignore it. Much as Mizu wishes to spar Vergil, she's choosing to have a good time of it. A good violent time. Someone else can solve the spirits' woes if that's what's needed.
"How little of your abilities do you think you need to face our current situation?" Mizu asks conversationally.
( On this particular day in late October when Vergil decides to retire to his room for whatever reason, he will find a stack of books β four of them to be precise β resting neatly at the foot of his bed above the sheets. The titles he will find in the stack upon closer inspection will be two by poet William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell and Songs of Innocence, as well as two by poet John Milton, Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. There's no card or note to indicate where or who they came from. Perhaps a gift from the book fairy of Folkmore? Who's to say. They're just there. On his bed. Waiting to be discovered and loved. )
[It's an incredibly short list of possible suspects for the books that have seemingly magically manifested upon his bed one night. By which it is meant there is really only one feasible suspect of the three people who would even consider gifting Vergil anything in all of Folkmore. Two out of those three only know that Vergil has a fondness for literature, but could not likely narrow it further. Well, perhaps that is a touch unfair. They could go potentially go so far as to correctly answer that Vergil prefers poetry to prose most of the time, but these books are far, far too specific of choices to have been the degree of coincidence that it would take for Nero or Mizu to have gotten them. And Vergil does still, after all, remember his childhood bedroom and its bookshelf. He could always tell in an instant when something was missing from it even when there wasn't an obvious gap or books leaning when they had once been upright and orderly.]
[And he always knew the culprit back then, too.]
[For that night, he leaves them on his nightstand, staring at them in the dark, his gaze tracing the lettering on their spines until he can take it no longer. Vergil flips on the light on the nightstand and plucks the book at the top of the stack. When he wakes in the morning, his thumb lightly holds his place as the book rests on the pillow beside his face, the nightstand light still on.]
[Vergil lets it be entirely for a little while after the books' appearance, the books resting neatly on the overall barren bookshelf when not in use. (Vergil notices occasionally they're not quite as they were left behind, but... Who knows with all the commotion lately? Without many more books to support them, they could have easily been shifted a bit and one of the other two righted them upon seeing them.) He waits for some kind of comment to come though in letting it be. After all, it had been Dante who seemed puzzled by the idea that Vergil wouldn't keep all that many books of his own, and that Vergil was overall generally opposed to the idea. Surely there was some sort of smug I told you so looming on the horizon. There didn't seem to a possibility for Dante to have such restraint. Not when Vergil so clearly liked the gift.]
[But the days stretch on without a single comment, and Vergil never exactly finds a way to work it into a conversation.]
[He looks up from Paradise Lost when he hears the front door to the apartment open. He's curled up on the couchβthe pull-out tucked away when not in usedβwith a mug of tea in one hand resting on the arm, his knees drawn up and propping the book up. Vergil has to admit the couch has been a decent investment thus far compared to reading at the table.]
You're home early. [His feet find the floor once more as he closes the book. It is starting to get a bit later in the day and Vergil should probably start seeing to dinner since it's his turn to cook. Pausing a moment as Dante closes the door behind him, he asks,] Nero isn't with you?
( Strolling his way on in, he's whistling away to himself with a freshly purchased bottle of something alcoholic in hand when he catches sight of his brother there on the couch looking like the bookworm he remembers him being in their childhood. Closing the door behind him, he stops when the question of Nero is posed and turns around. Opens the door back up. Pokes his head outside. Then shuts it again, looking over to Vergil there. )
Nope. Doesn't look like it.
( Cheesy little grin on his lips to show he's giving Vergil a bit of shit for that question, he goes back to his whistling as he makes his way over to where he has his very small stash of things he's gotten for himself here in Epiphany thus far. It's mostly a few stacked food boxes β empty thankfully β as well as a couple nearly finished bottles of something alcoholic. Then there's his outfit he'd worn when taking down a punk by the name of Argosax slung over whatever there; Ebony and Ivory always with him in their holsters. But he goes over to add the new bottle with the others. Cool.
Turning on his heel, he oh-so-dramatically drops himself down onto the couch there with Vergil, lounging his way across it and leaning there on his arm as he tilts his head, looking up to Vergil in doing so. )
Doing some light reading there?
( He's being funny because he damn well knows that particular book is not, by any means, light reading. )
[Vergil says nothing to Dante's antics of feigning looking out the door for Nero, but his facial expression likely speaks volumes as he fixes his brother with a flat, unimpressed look. Very funny he says without words as the look follows Dante making his way over to the couch and setting his bottle down with the rest of his belongings.]
[If one could call them as much. To Vergil, it was beginning to look like the younger son of Sparda was beginning a small trashpile in the apartment. It was nothing unsanitary and it was contained, which meant that Vergil held his tongue on the matter for now in an effort to maintain peace between his brother and him, but it was notable that its contents were largely nothing particularly permanent in nature. Vergil's gaze moves from the pile to Dante when he asks his question, rolling his eyes. Ah, so here it comes. The I told you so. It's only a matter of time.]
I thought I would take advantage of the quiet while you and Nero content yourselves with your work, [he says with a slight nod in the direction of the balcony to refer to the mess outside. Unlike his brother and nephew, Vergil has not lifted a finger to assist with the clean-up and rebuilding. His attention and focus has been more centralized to the apartment. His gaze goes back to Dante's pile, and he perhaps delays Dante's I told you so for a brief moment longer.] There's an entire kitchen in this apartment you know. That's typically where people who reside somewhere tend to store food and beverages, or so I'm told.
[Vergil pulls his feet back up onto the couch, drawing his knees up again as he looks at Dante. But not without a light shove to Dante's foot for encroaching on his temporarily claimed part of the couch. He does not, however, reopen the book and leaves it closed in his lap.]
( The shove to his foot only gets him to flop on the couch even more dramatically, chin in palm, elbow on the couch as he smiles up to his brother what with his leaning across and all. He wears that smile in silence as he stares to Vergil... then plucks the book from his brother's lap with a playful little yoink!
Pulling back to sit upright, he cracks it open. )
What're you reading anyways?
( Flipping through the pages, he stops on a random one and scans the page with a curious hum on his lips as he does. He's familiar with it β has a copy of this exact same edition stored back at the shop along with all the others by this author. Not for his own personal reading, but, much like the photograph of Eva on his desk, to have as a reminder of days long gone. Of someone he loves long gone.
Holding the book back from himself, he squints at it before he starts reading aloud. )
Let's see... once upon a time, there was a great devil hunter named Dante. ( He grins over to Vergil then continues. ) The most handsome in all the land and strongest of devil hunters. Wow, this guy sounds pretty cool.
[There's an attempt to snatch the book back before Dante can make off with it in the short distance between them. But having to make the attempt with one hand and trying to spill his tea alongside Dante's element of surprise leaves Vergil at a disadvantage and Paradise Lost now in Dante's hands. Were they younger, Vergil would have likely already been on top of Dante trying to get a hand on the book again and wrench it free from his little brother's grubby hands. Meanwhile, Dante would be squirming every which way and expertly avoiding Vergil's every attempt as he made up what was in the book or, worse yet, attempted to choppily read from it, interrupted from reading more cleanly by needing to jerk one way or another to avoid Vergil. And then at some point, red in the face either from anger or embarrassment or perhaps a combination thereof, Vergil would hit his limit and simply strike his brother to shut him up.]
[It does not quite play out like that now. Vergil frowns, his gaze like that of a hawk on Dante's handling of the book, but he does not lunge for the it any further and settles back into his part of the couch. Without his book in his lap, Vergil's mug of tea takes its place held within both his hands. He frowns further at that stupid lopsided grin sent his way, rolling his eyes in perhaps a bit of an exaggerated manner at Dante's absurd claims.]
You clearly haven't read far enough yet if you think that. I believe there's something about him also being the most irritating little brother to have ever walked the earth, and absurdly thinks he can convince anyone he knows how to read.
[For all that Vergil appears to be insulting Dante at present, there's no actual bite or venom to his words. Annoyed though he may be that Dante's snatched his book away instead of just asking for it, Vergil's mood is not made immediately foul by the move. He can roll with Dante's antics a little every now and again even if he'd never care to admit it.]
( There's a low rumbling of a chuckle deep in the back of his throat at that, flipping idly through more of the pages more because he can than actually meaning to find a particular page of interest. Snapping the book closed rather loudly between his hands, he waves it around then as he smiles over to his brother. )
Maybe it's because unlike some people I actually read interesting things and not high art in text form.
( Like his gun magazines and... other particular reading material that has pictures of mostly women in it, but hey. Those articles, man. Those articles. But hey, Vergil's reading it. Just like he knew he would and he's glad to see his brother take the time to enjoy the things he used to again. That alone makes this worth the Lore purchase.
Book in hand, he gently bops it off the top of his brother's head before he sets it down and swings himself over the back of the couch, red coat fluttering after him as he does, making his way over to the kitchen area with another whistle on his lips. )
[Vergil reflexively blinks when the book comes down on the top of his head. It does not actually hurt in the slightest, but he still make a point to lightly rub at his crown.]
I just went to the hospitality station a few days ago for more food, [he says, picking the book up from where Dante left it. He holds it a little closer to himself, more protectively to avoid any other potential yoinking away from him even if it's unlikely Dante will bother with it.] Unless Nero has already helped himself and ate them all, there should be more of those potato crisps you two seem to like in the snack cabinet. There are also more strawberries in the fridge, and more of those frozen...quesadillas you can microwave.
[His hesitation in calling them quesadillas isn't uncertainty about their name, but he doesn't think ready-to-eat, microwaveable food like that should ever be called what they're purportedly meant to be. He's no expert, but he is still certain he could do better. Perhaps he ought to look into it, he thinks, drumming his fingers against the back cover of his book. He could make them to a similar, smaller size, and freeze them, and Nero and Dante could microwave them anytime they wanted... They would hopefully taste better, but at the very least, they would not have that strange...cardboard texture that bothers Vergil but doesn't seem to bother either of his relatives.]
[He shakes himself from his thoughts to provide the rest of the answer to Dante's question.]
If you're looking for something more substantial, I can start dinner, or you can help yourself to leftovers or a sandwich. Or if a sandwich is too much work, cereal is an option.
( He's listening to Vergil ramble on about the various options he has while he stands there in front of the fridge... and starts to dance to a tune playing inside his head, head bobbing along as he does. Fridge door swinging open, he still vibes to whatever tune he's got going in his head, fingers drumming along the top of the door as he scans the contents of the fridge and that's when he finds them. )
Jackpot.
( Laugh soft on his lips, he pulls out the strawberries and pops one right away into his mouth as he takes the whole basket/bowl with him back for the couch, head bobbing still.
Strawberry between his teeth, he smiles around it to his brother and drops himself right back down on the couch there beside him, setting the strawberries there in his lap as he starts going at them one at a time, savoring each and every one.
A turn of his head to his brother, he holds a strawberry out for him. )
[With the way Dante brings the whole bowl of strawberries rather than just a handful over to the couch, Vergil thinks perhaps he should have taken more seeing as how those might not last particularly long. While Dante begins indulging in his snack, Vergil sinks a little more back into the couch the way he was before Dante returned home and opens his book back up to where he left off. At the offer, Vergil lifts his gaze from the page to the strawberry and shakes his head no.]
I got them for you to enjoy. [He looks back down at his book before having a sip of his tea.] I know a lot of time has passed and it's possible your tastes have changed, but I assumed they were still your favorite.
( A shrug, he pops the offered strawberry into his mouth, not about to waste the delicious little thing, especially when Vergil is right about them still being his favorite in the family of berries and fruits in general.
Swinging his leg closest to Vergil up, he drapes it over his brother's legs the best he can just because and keeps indulging in his strawberries there. It's not so strange of him to do, having done so many times when they were younger and Vergil was there reading one of his books. Always as a means to remind the other that he was right there lest he decided to forget for even just a minute or two. It comes with their being twins β so close to one another and really only having each other since long before birth. The fact he seems to fall back into it so easily without even questioning it... maybe he will later. When he's alone. Who's to say how his mood will shift when left by himself and his thoughts.
Never really being a fan of silence, he glances over to his brother there, another strawberry shoved in his mouth as he does. )
So. ( A beat, another strawberry popped in his mouth. ) Spending some nights away, huh? Bow chicka wow wow.
[When the leg comes up, Vergil scoots his feet a little further long the couch to lower his knees. It's less about making it more comfortable for Danteβif he's stupid enough to position himself uncomfortably, that was on him as far as Vergil was concernedβand more to keep Dante's leg from sliding down with gravity only to be replaced again and again and again and again. It also means Dante's leg now acts as a place for Vergil to comfortably prop his book. Just as when they were kids, he hardly pauses in his reading to make these accommodations for Dante, and simply settles into what feels like a comfortable silence with his brother.]
[A comfortable silence that Dante shatters without hesitation. Vergil heaves a sigh as he looks up from his book, regarding his brother with a look that's both visibly annoyed and suspicious about where this conversation could potentially lead itself.]
On occasion, I like to sleep without disruptions. Mizu lives alone and you snore at a deafening volume most nights.
[Vergil keeps it matter-of-fact and looks back to his book.]
( Vergil gives him that look, as expected, and he just smiles to him like the little shit he can be when he's in the mood to be. But hey! Look at them. Chilling here on the couch together like old times and having a nice little chat together. How far they've come. How just like old times it is, minus the topic of conversation, but. They're here. They're alive. And no one's thrown hands yet.
To be determined how long that may or may not last of course. )
Yeah. I'll bet there's all sorts of other deafening volumes there.
( Chuckling around a strawberry as he says that, grin still plastered all over his face, nudging his brother with an elbow. )
[There isn't much room for him to go with the end of the couch on one side and Dante at the other, but Vergil leans away as best he can from Dante when he's elbowed, leaning over the arm of the couch a little more.]
It is none of your business either way. [Vergil turns the page and he does not look at that stupid look on his brother's face. (He doesn't need to when he can feel how wide that grin likely is on Dante's face.) Especially not when the tips of Vergil's ears are starting to turn pink.] I tell you when I am going to be away as a courtesy. So, you know where I am for the night in case anything were to happen.
[Not for you to offer your commentary on his sex life, Dante!]
( Vergil pulls away and he lets him, chuckling around a strawberry as he lazes there on the couch still. )
Hey, I think it's great you're still staying active in your old age. Making sure everything still works like it should.
( Waggling his eyebrows at that, he pops another couple of strawberries in his mouth and... welp. That's that. No more strawberries. Didn't take long at all for him to just devour them. As expected, really. Bowl in hand, he gets himself up off the couch and rounds it to head back for the kitchen area, not before giving a couple pats to Vergil's shoulder though. )
Also, how's anyone supposed to get ahold of you when you don't even use the relic thing we've got here?
[It's only for a brief moment, but Vergil contemplates whether or not Paradise Lost would be left with a dent in its cover if he were to use it against his brother. Most likely it would be with that thick skull of Dante's coming into contact with it. So, Vergil says nothing to Dante's comments even if the ambient temperature of the room feels a bit warmer and he reads the same line two or three times before being able to move on. When Dante gets up, Vergil lifts his book enough to let Dante have his leg back and rests it back in his own lap. The hand patting his shoulder still ends up swatted at, however, as Dante strides into the kitchen to take care of the dish.]
[Most irritating little brother to ever walk the earth, indeed.]
The farthest I ever tend to go from anywhere in Epiphany by choice is Mizu's cabin in Wintermute. [And by Vergil's estimation, it shouldn't take the Relic to connect with Vergil in Epiphany. Vergil only goes to a few limited spots after all.] And he uses his Relic, so you could just as easily call him if you needed me.
( It's asked with a scoff and shake of his head as he looks around for where to put the bowl and opts for... the sink. Yeah. That's where that's going. )
What if you guys are in the middle of going at it and I interrupt or something? Do you think I want to be subjected to such indecency from my big brother?
[The sound that emits from Vergil in his exasperation sounds somewhere between a sputter and a choking cough, but ultimately results in no recognizable speech sounds. Looking over to Dante in the kitchen, Vergil's free hand is thrown up a little as he furiously shakes his head. Vergil's hand curls into a fist and he drops it down on the pages in his lap as he squeezes his eyes shut, not even sure where to begin with any of this.]
Dante... [He audibly huffs as he opens his eyes again, his gaze more towards the ceiling than at his brother at present.] Going along with your false assumption that I am only ever at Mizu's for the purposes of sex, what difference would it make calling his Relic versus mine in an emergency in that circumstance?
[That is not even addressing the fact that neither Mizu nor Vergil would ever just answer while still in the middle of something like that in the first place. Even without the need to protect Mizu's secret, they would still separate and there would be nothing to witness. That's just a matter of common decency.]
[Nor is it addressing the fact Vergil's Relic is missing, so the point is ultimately moot to begin with.]
( Waving a hand at his brother, boots scuff against the flooring as he lazily saunters his way over to his little stash of things. )
Look, you don't even need to worry. Something happens? I'll take care of it.
( Just like always.
Stopping there at his little pile, he reaches for the new bottle he'd brought in with him, grabbing it by the neck with the tips of his fingers before he turns back to look to his brother. )
[Vergil watches Dante return from the kitchen to his pile, reaching for the latest bottle. He doesn't say anything, but his silence still is accompanied by a heavy weight of wanting to say something all the same. But it's not anger that has Vergil so quiet, but rather an uncertainty. An anxiety that sits in the pit of his stomach as he weighs his options and mulls it over. He sets his tea down on the floor nearby to the couch and slowly closes the book in his lap again, hands resting on the cover just so that his fingers curl over the top of it, but he lingers in his indecision to say something or not.]
[On an extremely basic level, what Dante is suggesting does not sit well with Vergil. A life worth living, to him, is one that he should always wish to protect and fight for. To ask Vergil to live his life, but allow someone elseβeven his own brotherβto be the one to ensure there is no threat to it is simply antithetical to Vergil even without that endless drive for power. No matter how much Vergil has craved to be loved and to be protected, he could never idly stand by if those he has chosen to love, chosen to care for are in any sort of danger. Regardless of the temporary nature of this life he has managed to start to eke out for himself here in Folkmore... It is Vergil's, and that makes it his to protect with everything he has.]
[But far deeper and greater than that basic principle is the way Dante says it. Just live your life here. It sits poorly with Vergil. It's as though despite being perfectly within reach, Dante is hundreds of miles away. Just live your life here. As though Dante is not a part of it let alone an important part of it. Glaring at a spot on the floor, Vergil purses his lips. This is why he's left in indecision.]
[Short of more literally drilling it into his skull, while she was alive, Eva never let Vergil forget that his responsibility as the eldest was to look after his little brother. At the time, he resented it, of course. What child wouldn't? Especially when taking into consideration they were twins, and no matter whatever reassurances could be offered, they were still expected more than regular siblings to share in all things with each other. So, not only was Vergil being asked to share when he did not want to, make concessions on his quiet to appease his little brother, he was also asked to take responsibility for Dante. But then Eva died. Eva died and the Yamato protected him, and those events shaped so much of his life by themselves, but Eva was not the only person that Vergil mourned, the only person he lost and led him to swear off ever allowing someone that sort of closeness to him ever again.]
[He thought Dante had been taken from him, too. That he had been too weak. That his selfish, childish aggravation with Dante that day had...]
[Vergil knows he's failed Dante as a brother more than he hasn't, and that even when excluding times when he was not entirely himself, he'd plainly resented it. But that's not what Vergil wants. Deep in his heart, he's never wanted to be alone or without his brother even with all their differences, and their inability to truly resolve any of them between one another. For as much as Dante drives him insane... He will always been Vergil's little brother. And he wants things to be different, to be better between them.]
I have been looking at some of the houses in the area. This is working for now, [he says with a vague gesture of his hand to what used to be just his apartment,] but you could use more clothes than the ones you own already and there isn't enough room in here for storage like that. I also wouldn't mind having my own room again on the off-chance Mizu feels brave enough to weather your nonsense for a night or two. And I don't know what Nero's plans are, but I was thinking regardless of whether he chooses to stay or go, having a bed available to him rather than sleeping on this thing would be preferred.
[Vergil is looking anywhere but at Dante as he says any of this. Even if he's learned from his mistake in the woods that day of pressing too much of an interest or otherwise protest to Dante's assertions, there's still a degree to which he doesn't know how Dante will take this. If he will agree to it or not. Vergil supposes it doesn't really...matter. It's not as though they won't still see each other. It will just take more effort than it does now to make that happen, that's all. But it bruised before, and Vergil doesn't want something like this, something that he's trying to say without perhaps saying it directly, to potentially spark an argument.]
There aren't many, but there are a few three bedrooms that seem as though they should suffice. You could... [He clears his throat and tries again, more firmly.] You could come with me tomorrow to see which ones you prefer.
( He honestly hadn't been sure what to expect when he'd gone off and said what he had. He meant it. Means it. If anything were to happen to either Vergil or Nero, he would be there to take care of it β take care of them in whatever ways he needed to. In the years since the trauma of their childhood, he's always shouldered the responsibility of needing to take care of things. At first, he hated it. Hated the fact that it was him having to clean up after and take care of his old man's messes he'd left behind for him.
But he did it. Over and over and over again until it was pretty much all he knew. It hurt sometimes β ripped his heart out and left him crying on the floor of his office after losing Vergil again. He's mourned his brother three times in his life and each time, it's damn nearly killed him. He still doesn't know how he survived each time. Because he never got over it, no. He survived. Just as he did that day back at their old home in Redgrave. Getting over it would imply he still doesn't hurt from it β still doesn't have wounds that bleed when he thinks too much about it. But he does. All over his heart and they still hurt like a bitch when they're torn open by unexpected force.
He takes a sort of pride in what does, sure. Keeping the human realm safe... it's given him a sort of purpose in life. Even if it's tiring some days and he's left wondering if it'll ever really end. So he doesn't even really think twice about offering to handle whatever might happen here or in their lives. It's... what he does. What he's done for years even when he thinks he can barely get through it. So to see the reaction from his brother there when he says what he does, it has him pause in the twisting of the cap off his bottle and he stares over to him when he goes on about looking for some place else. Somewhere bigger.
For a moment, he's quiet. Eyes roaming their gaze around the place with hands stilled on the bottle. He's not about to disagree that a bigger place would be nicer for them, but. After learning about Mizu and Vergil's wandering off some nightsβ not to mention Nero being here and the both of them knowing who they are to one another... he figured this was all temporary until he found some place for himself. So for that to not be the case as he'd assumed... he stands there. Silent. A little unsure how to respond to that, especially the part about looking at places together.
Teeth gently press into his bottom lip, gaze dropping down to the bottle he holds. Serious conversations between them have usually led to an argument at some point in them, often due to their being at odds with one another β differing points of views. This, however, isn't necessarily the case and it's why he's not sure what to say. Vergil is trying. He can see that. It's what he's always wanted his brother to do and yet, the moment he does, he's left unsure with how to react to it. At least for a moment.
In the silence that falls over them, there's a sort of tempered contentment there as he'd had when he was a child and Vergil finally gave in to wanting to play with him. The smile that touches his lips faint and hidden before he finds it within him to finally say something. )
So you wanna play house with me, huh? You do the cooking, I do the dishes. We take turns taking the trash out. Socks on the doorknobs as a courtesy to each other.
( Good way to break any tension there with throwing in a nonchalance about it all. Shrug of his shoulders, he holds his arms out at his sides some. )
Alright. But on one condition. ( To which he smiles. ) I want a jukebox.
[Vergil finally looks up at Dante when he speaks, wrinkling his nose a little at how Dante phrases it and how cavalier as always he is about it. It's only because he knows that's his brother's way that Vergil doesn't provide some sort of critical remark for it.]
[Well, not exactly.]
[The moment Dante agrees to it, something in Vergil lights up and warms immediately. Dante's nonchalance and jokes do nothing to dampen it or the smile that not only curves Vergil's lips, but reaches his eyes. He didn't hold an expectation either way what Dante's answer would be, but the answer he receives leaves him pleased. No... No, not pleased. Happy.]
[It's a strange, funny feeling.]
Fine. But it's off after midnight. One, at the absolute latest. [He looks back down at the book in his lap briefly before looking at Dante again.] And you are doing the dishes if you're expecting me to cook. It's the least you can do considering the mess I'm sure you and that woman [Trish; don't think Vergil hasn't noticed the fridge becoming emptier a little faster than anticipated] are going to make in the rest of the house.
( It takes him a second to realize he's talking about Trish and when he does, he blows out a sigh as he finally goes about twisting that cap off the bottle he's holding. )
Her name is Trish not that woman. Jesus, Verge.
( Shake of his head, he takes a swig and licks over his lips as he wanders around the room a little. )
And before you get any ideas, I'm not banging her. ( He points to his brother while holding the bottle, feeling the need to just Get That Out There just in case. ) She's my friend and we've been through shit together.
[Vergil visibly shudders when Dante denies having any relations with Trish, expression scrunching like he just bit into something unpleasant. Setting aside the circumstances of Trish's path crossing with either son of Sparda, she was made to look like their mother. The furthest thing from Vergil's mind was the idea that anything was happening between Dante and Trish, and now he really wishes Dante hadn't said anything because that was not a thought he needed. Ever.]
I figured as much...? [The question in his tone is really only an unspoken question as to why Dante thinks that's what Vergil would conclude. He shakes his head as he extends his legs on the couch since Dante has taken to mildly wandering rather than sitting back down. He is still frowning in disgust though. Gross.] She isn't over here as often as she is for Nero's sake and certainly not for mine, in any case. I assumed that after...
[Vergil trails off, not really sure how to put it in a succinct way that doesn't feel as though they're about to tread into thoughts and memories neither one of them is liable to want to remember. He lets it be, returning to the point.]
I assumed the two of you must have remained close based on how often she is here. [He pauses a moment before adding,] I'm glad you have a friend here with you at least. Unfortunate that Lady could not also be here.
[He bothered to remember her name at least. Well. It's less a matter that he did or did not remember Trish's name, and just more what baggage comes with her existence for Vergil. Lady does not come with that, so she's a touch easier for Vergil to talk about even if he certainly couldn't claim to know her any better than he knows Trish.]
( Whatever!! He's just making sure it's out there.
Vergil stops himself before he goes on to say what he knows he was going to around that time and it has him slow in his steps β take another swig of his drink even. He just so happens to be near the bathroom when doing so and he stares into it for a long moment, silent, before he looks back over to the other son of Sparda there on the couch. )
Yeah, well. I'm a friendly sort of guy, what can I say?
( Lazy shrug of his shoulders, he wanders about a little more before he goes around behind the little divider Vergil bothered to setup there to give them all some privacy and... drops himself down to his brother's bed with an oof. Yeah. He's absolutely sprawling himself out on it with his drink. )
[Vergil doesn't know exactly what to say to that, and he supposes that's likely part of the point. Dante isn't exactly an open book about most things, but when it comes to everything that happened with Mundus and Mallet Island... Vergil doesn't fault him for wanting the conversation to stop. He lets it go and says nothing for a long moment. Even after hearing Dante flop on his bed, Vergil says nothing. Not even a remark about keeping his boots off the bed or barking at him to be mindful of his drink. The silence this time feels less companionable than it did before. Heavier and suffocating almost when he thinks about it.]
[Vergil looks down at the book in his lap fishing for something to say, but comes up short. He folds his arms uncomfortably before slowly looking back up towards the balcony again. The silence stretches on for a moment or two longer before Vergil finally breaks it with a huff that almost borders on a laugh.]
You know, [he says, looking over in the direction of his bed,] I don't even know where my Relic is anymore. I left it in the nightstand, but it wasn't there when I looked after everything returned to normal.
( He lets the silence fall between them β lets his gaze linger on the bottle he rests there against his leg. Heβs lounging there on the bed β a leg propped up which means boot on the bed and his back pressed against the pillow or two heβs propped up as a means to give him some support with the headboard. Heβsβ¦ almost uncharacteristically quiet for a long moment, even as he hears Vergil toss a conversation starter his way and he sighs as he tips his head back and looks to the ceiling. )
Do you think dadβs dead?
( He realizes itβs a bit of a one-eighty swerve from what theyβd been talking about but, he adds: )
Nero asked me about him. I didnβt really know what to say.
( Huff on his lips, he looks to his bottle again. )
I mean heβd have to be, right? Unless heβs just that much of an asshole to ditch his family.
Edited 2024-11-03 04:44 (UTC)
cw: talk of death, child abandonment, attempted child murder
[Saying that Vergil didn't expect that question feels like more than a little bit of an understatement. He tried to lighten the mood by throwing Dante an easy thing to get on Vergil's case about. Something to easily distract from the parts of their lives that neither one of them really want to think about. The silence that follows is a little troubling, but Vergil's prepared to take it as a sign he should stop while he's ahead. Dante moved himself into a space where Vergil can't see him, and he isn't taking the easy bait. That's more than enough to signal that Vergil should let him be and busy himself instead with reading or perhaps starting dinner so it will be ready by the time Nero returns home. His expression is nearly faded entirely when Dante throws him a curveball though in asking about their father, another topic that neither one of them are particularly good in talking about with the other without it devolving into an argument.]
[Swallowing thickly, he answers quietly and softly,] Yes.
[Vergil doesn't know if he should say more or not. He wishes he could see Dante now to gauge it better, but... Then again, would Dante even listen to him regardless of his mood? Any other time the matter of Sparda comes up, Dante is quick to dismiss what Vergil has to say. Vergil's not stupid. He knows Dante thinks it is nothing but blind hero worship, but that's not it for Vergil. He could never blindly hero worship anyone, not even their father. Vergil knows their father was strong. And he loved them and their mother more than anything in the world. But Vergil also knows he wasn't there when they needed him. Something took him away from them. Vergil's certain their mother knew why he left even if she never told Vergil and Dante. Why else would she never speak anything of him as being anything less than the noble knight of his legend when she could have just as easily not said anything at all? Whatever her feelings about the chance he might not return or whatever heartbreak and grief she felt when he did not, she clearly understood their father's reason for leaving and implicitly condoned it one way or another.]
I know you hate him, Dante, but he... [Vergil looks away from the divider towards the Yamato where Vergil left it propped near the front door. Speak father, speak to your little boy, or else I shall be lost. Vergil continues, although not with exactly what he was about to say.] If he was alive, he would have returned to us.
[And to his mother brought, who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale, her little boy weeping sought.]
[Eva would still be alive. They would not have been separated, believing the other to have succumbed to the same attack that claimed their mother's life. Perhaps Vergil could have grown to be kinder, gentler than he is now. Dante would have fewer reasons to drink and be less insistent on handling matters on his own. Brothers would not be at great odds with one another, locked in battle after battle to the death. Nero would have grown up with a father. So much would and could be different if Sparda lived and they were together again.]
Or we would have found a trace of him by now.
[Assuming that Dante's most unkind, ungenerous thoughts of Sparda were true, and he had simply just not been there, abandoning them thoughtlessly. Somewhere in all of Vergil's searching for claiming his power would have proven some evidence he was still alive, somewhere out there. Surely he would have intervened with Temen-ni-gru being raised once more if not to stop his sons from their contests of strength then at least to protect his beloved humanity from the consequences of reopening the portal that he sealed. If something as extreme as that could not stir him to action, Vergil's only conclusion is, as it has been for years upon years, that their father is dead.]
cw: continued mentions of death, depression, childhood trauma
( He's trying to be careful with this conversation here. He knows how he and his brother differ in their opinions and views of their father, but. Nero had asked about his grandfather and the youngest son of Sparda hadn't wanted to not say anything when he had, so. The old man is on his mind as of late, especially with two generations of Sparda's bloodline being under one roof currently. That his bloodlineβ his family had, in fact, survived and finally found each other.
What would he think if he could see them now? What would their mother think if she could see them together like this? It's a depressing thought, more concerning her and, how like he'd said to Nero, she had deserved so much better than the hand the cards had dealt her that day. Maybe if he hadn't been such a little brat to his brother, Vergil wouldn't have run off to get away from his annoying little brother and she wouldn't have left to go look for him... she wouldn't have been killed and he wouldn't continuously have nightmares of her screams over the years while he hid, trembling and scared in a closet. That's his fault and he carries that with him every day.
But he should have been there. Sparda should have been there and he's never quite forgiven their old man for just leaving them when he was supposed to protect them. They're his sons β they carry his demonic blood in their veins, but they were kids at the time and there was too many of them. Yet no matter how many times he tries to tell himself that, he still can't help but feel the guilt for what had happened all because he wanted his brother's attention. He shouldn't feel that. Sparda should, for not being there for them. But how's a guy or demon supposed to feel that if he was already dead at the time?
He stares to the bottle there resting at his leg β listens to Vergil's thoughts on whether or not their father might somehow still be alive after all this time, and he huffs before he brings the bottle up to his lips, pausing. )
So much for being the legendary dark knight, huh? Wonder what punk demon took him out.
( Sparda had disappeared before Mundus struck. That was the whole reason why Mundus struck. The demon had caught wind of Sparda's sudden disappearance and saw it as an opportune moment to send his lackeys after the dark knight's family. Had it been Mundus who had finally exacted his revenge of their old man, the demon would have gloated about it, he's for damn sure about that.
There's the possibility maybe he'd ended up trapped somewhere. Portals to the underworld are a dime a dozen if you know how to open them and Sparda was known to open and close a few in his time. But Vergil's right. If that were the case, they would have heard something about that, he figures. Rumors or legends of him stepping into some portal somewhere at some point. He doesn't go searching the world for traces of his old man, but. He keeps an ear to the ground for anything pertaining to him. He always has and he's always come up with next to nothing but stories he'd already heard before. The Order of the Sword had really been the closest thing to anything "new" regarding him, even if that had more been a trap for him than anything else.
He takes a long swig of his drink β licks over his lips as he rests it against his leg again and he falls silent as pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes falling shut. )
I shouldn't have bothered you that day... ( The words are slow and soft to leave him, as if he's unsure if he should even say them to begin with, but. Damn that kid of Vergil's. ) ...mom went looking for you because I wouldn't leave you alone. ( Again, there's a stretch of silence and he lets go a shaky breath as he his hand drops away from his face. ) That's my fault. You leaving, mom looking for you... that's my fault.
( And so it all goes back to whether or not Vergil would really want his brother to live with him again. Why he'd been so unsure when the offer was made. Live your life here where he doesn't have to be a thorn in his side like back then. )
[Vergil does not bother with responding to Dante's remark about their father. Dante has certainly said worse about the man, and Vergil defending him never seems to change Dante's perspective. Vergil also thinks Dante knows better than to assume their father was so easily defeated. Regardless of his feelings of hatred and anger, and whatever other vitriol he launches towards the devil, Dante knew Sparda was more than capable to take on most filth from the Underworld even without his full strength and power available to him. He was too smart to be bested easily, as every good warrior ought to be. So, Vergil just lets it be as his gaze drifts again from the Yamato to somewhere else in the apartment, to whatever meaningless spot on the wall or floor he can look at first. Once again, he's willing to let the silence sit and be, not trying to reach for further discussion of Sparda lest that result in a fight, nor trying to change the subject to something more pleasant.]
[What Dante says next...]
[Vergil looks to the divider, eyes wide in their confusion. Although Dante does not immediately claim responsibility for what happened, Vergil can hear the conclusion already in those first few slow words. Vergil swallows thickly as he swings his legs back down to the floor, sliding Paradise Lost from his lap to the cushion beside him. Unsteadily, Vergil rises to his feet in that additional stretch of silence, as without his awareness, he holds his next breath until Dante speaks again. Vergil feels almost immediately winded, Dante's words striking at him like a firm punch to his gut. His exhale is thin and weak, but still he steps forward.]
[Nothing Dante says sounds unfamiliar to him. How many nights after that day had Vergil laid awake believing that if he had just been a little bit stronger, a little bit faster, his mother and brother would still be alive? How often did he think that if he had just tolerated Dante's nonsense a little better, been a kinder brother to him, he would not find himself alone? Vergil is all too familiar with that guilt, that shame, and that self-loathing at a perceived flaw being the source of all the harm and misery that has followed him ever since. It drove Vergil to never experience that feeling of helplessness again. He sought more and more power to protect himself, to never allow himself that dependency upon another person to save him whenever he might need it. And so that he would never feel that grief again either.]
[But even in recognizing the sentiment Dante expresses... Vergil does not understand hearing it come from Dante. His brother makes light of so many things, brushing them aside and choosing to deal with life as it comes, not as he predicts it might. He's affable and kind in ways that Vergil never has been, and he surrounds himself with people who care for him. He's had a place to call home and people to fill his life with for decades. Barring the vitriol reserved for Sparda, Vergil has never once heard his brother speak of that day, and certainly not on his perceived role in it.]
[Had Vergil's decisions that day really...?]
[Vergil sits on the edge of the bed nearest to Dante. Taking it by the neck, he plucks the bottle away from his brother and sets it on the nightstand. Vergil looks at it where it sits for a moment or two before he looks at his brother. The look in Vergil's eyes is a hard one, but it is not because he carries any sort of anger towards Dante in this moment, nor is his intent to push Dante to either cease some annoying behavior or go away if he's unable to help himself. Rather instead, that furrow in his brow is the only thing keeping the tears that have formed in the edges of his vision, blurring the sight of Dante for Vergil, from falling as every breath he draws now feels like it might shake them loose. Leaning forward, Vergil pulls Dante towards himself in a tight embrace. Unlike the hug he offered Dante in the woods, nothing about this one feels tenuous. It is not a brief expression of some affection, some appreciation for his brother that is otherwise hard for Vergil to speak. It's firmer than that. Protective in the way one of Vergil's hands comes to cradle the back of his brother's head while the other at his back fists itself in the fabric of his coat.]
It wasn't your fault. [Vergil doesn't bother with offering the rationalizations for why it was not Dante's fault. He knows well enough himself firsthand how little that matters, how little that changes. Hell, Vergil would even be willing to bet that him declaring it not to be Dante's fault or responsibility will change nothing. But he says it anyway because his brother is hurting, and he is carrying a weight that should not be his to carry alone.] It was never your fault.
[A hand reaches out to Vergil in the dark as he falls. In reality, he rejected it, slashing across his brother's hand to prevent any grip from forming on any part of him. But in his dreams, Vergil desperately reaches back for it. He tries again and again each dream, but the ground gives way beneath him too quickly. His hand simply passes through as though he were little more than a spirit. Or something pulls him away before his grip can be firm enough. But again and again, he is never able to take Dante's hand.]
[Neither of them can undo the past. The past, no matter how much they may wish it were otherwise, is immutable. But they have now. They have tomorrow.]
[Vergil holds his brother a little tighter. He cannot bring himself to say the words right now, but with each pulse of his own heart, he promises Dante again and again.]
[I will never leave you alone again, brother.]
cw: still mentions of depression and survivor's guilt
( He doesn't know why he said what he said β doesn't know why they're having this conversation to begin with... except he does. Nero. The kid had been the one to ask about Sparda, about Eva, wanting to know about his family and while it's valid and understandable he'd want to know when he's gone his whole life wondering that, it's still painful for the youngest son of Sparda, despite the nonchalance he carries with him. He imagines, to an extent, it's the same for Vergil, just that their heartaches, while similar, are also so very different from one another. Just like them. Because of Nero's curiosity, it'd been on his mind, though β brought up old feelings and guilt, especially with Vergil very much alive and here with him now.
Very much making his way over to him there on the bed.
When his brother goes and takes the bottle from him, he lets him β eyes him for a moment, only to see it set aside; he never did peg Vergil for much of a drinker. He doesn't know what he expects or what Vergil is likely to say, if anything at all to that. He'd made his smartass comment about their father just moments prior to his own admission to his guilt surrounding their mother and that day, so it would almost be remiss for him to not say something about that. Big brother who respects their father and all.
But there's nothing to come concerning their father or the comment he'd made. Not even a look of disdain there in matching blue eyes when he lifts his gaze up to meet his brother's. Instead, there's something else there in the hardness of them β something that confuses him for a moment... and then he's being pulled into an embrace and held in a way he hasn't been held in a very, very long time.
He sits there, dumbfounded, but. Like the words he'd spilled before regarding that day and his guilt, he finds himself doing something he's not sure why he is and, reaches up to grasp at the back of Vergil's clothing with a hand. Tight. As if scared to let go and have this all be a dream he's dreamt a hundred or so times before.
When the words come, he's left there in silence β left in the tight embrace his brother keeps him within and he sits there with those words, with the reassurance his brother tries to give him. He drops his head β presses his face down to Vergil's shoulder and just... stays like that, hand still holding at his brother's back. Reminiscent of days when they were children and he'd come sidle up to his brother after having a bad dream or the thunder being a bit too loud for him. Hiding beneath the sheets and within his brother's arms, knowing he was safe there. Knowing he wouldn't let anything hurt him.
Except he is hurt β has been hurting for years and Vergil wasn't there to protect him. Wasn't there to reassure him that things would be ok. That he would be ok. It's why he's not. Ok. Because he'd lost his other half that day years ago due to his driving him away with refusing to let him be for a little while. He'd lost him that day. Lost him when they'd found each other again and, like his books, he chose the Underworld over wanting to be with him. Lost him to the demon fuck Mundus who had stripped his brother of everything he ever was and made him a puppet. A puppet he had to put down and, again, had to watch leave him because of his actions.
He can't let him know how much it hurts. Can't let him know the number of nights he'd spend on the floor instead of on the couch. Laying there. Bottle empty. Staring across the room with tears in his eyes and replaying over and over and over again how he should have done things differently. How he should have tried harder or searched for him when he'd fallen into the Underworld.
So when he finally finds it within him to speak, it's soft β pathetic almost, as if he were a child again, tucked in against his big brother beneath the sheets of their bed. )
[It seems foolish after a moment of thought, but hearing Dante admit so plainly to having missed Vergil takes the elder son of Sparda by surprise. Had it only been that decade from when they both left behind the burning rubble of their childhood and assumed themselves the sole survivor, it would not come as all that much surprise because Vergil had missed Dante then, too. For all that he swore to himself that he would never allow himself such vulnerabilities and weaknesses again, he still missed his brother. For weeks and months after the attack, when Vergil settled in for the night, he would pretend Dante was there beside him. It was, of course, a means of soothing his own anxieties by projecting them onto Dante instead of accepting them as his own, but Vergil was always left with that feeling of loneliness afterward when he was staring into the dark instead of at matching blue eyes. He still remembers thinking on some nights that he would have given anything, even the Yamato itself, to have his brother there with him instead. Or in weaker moments, on worse nights, he wished it had been him instead, or if that weren't possible, that they both died that day. Because they were not supposed to be separated like that. They shared a womb, and just hours apart, they came into the world together. One of them was not supposed to grow up while the other remained a child forever. Even Vergil knew that at such a young age.]
[But that was before everything that came to follow.]
[It feels to Vergil that Dante should not miss him. Not particularly. Not acutely. Not to any great measure beyond an old loss that one has had time to sit and come to terms with. The odds that they have been at with one another, the resolve that Dante had to find within himself to do whatever it took to stop Vergil... Vergil would have thought somewhere amid all that, it would have burned it out of Dante. That there could be no more love, no grace, no hope, nothing left for Vergil but resentment and anger at what Vergil pushed Dante to do again and again. He was prepared that day atop the Qliphoth, wasn't he? To end it. Once and for all. For there to be no more chances, no more opportunities for Vergil to cause mayhem in all the ways he had before. That's all it should have been by then.]
[He squeezes his eyes shut, but it's already too late. The tears slip from his eyes, falling the short distance to Dante's shoulder. The first in years. Decades, really...]
I missed you, too.
[Not in the same ways. Their positions and perspectives on their conflict with one another have always been different. And there had been that stretch of years when Mundus carved and rent every trace of what made Vergil who he is until there was nothing but a mindless, hollow shell left behind. But the words are true. The ache of years lost and wasted still resonates beneath them all the same.]
[Vergil loosens his hold and sits back.]
Look at me. [He holds his brother's face in one hand while the other rests at his shoulder, waiting until he has Dante's eyes before he continues.] We are in this together. Not as the sons of Sparda, but as Dante and Vergil.
[As brothers. As they always should have been.]
Nothing is going to get in the way of that, Dante. [Vergil shakes his head slightly as he gives a squeeze to Dante's shoulder.] Not anymore.
( Look at me, Vergil says and, like the little brother listening to his big brother, he does.
This is different. So different from anything they've ever said or done with one another to the point where some part of him almost wants to fiddle and fidget away from it all. He doesn't β it takes everything within him to not. To keep the sass and sarcasm from spilling out of him β to keep himself from twisting away and reaching for his bottle with a lazy little smile on his lips. All things that feel kneejerk for him to do in response to feeling this exposed and this vulnerable. But he doesn't, even if some part of him so very badly wants to, he doesn't because it doesn't feel right to do. Not when Vergil is here with him like this. Not when he's saying what he is, looking to him with such conviction in those eyes that are far from the glassy blue he'd come to be so familiar with during so many of their interactions with one another in the past.
Those words twist something up within him β have him feel a plethora of emotions that threaten to drown him right then and there on the bed. Words that almost feel too late, in a way. That he wishes had been said and realized so many years ago. They dredge up moments from their childhood β of a young Dante dropped to his knees, whining after his brother taking his leave back to the house after he'd finished playing with him. Finished too soon, in young Dante's opinion, staring down to the ground with a pout on his lips. But Vergil would come back β would grab his little brother by the wrist and drag him along with him, mumbling how they need to stick together and to stop dragging his feet as he goes. Together. A word that punches the youngest son of Sparda right in the center of his chest and sends cracks of heartache throughout his entire being.
That's how they should have been. Together. That's all he ever wanted. To be together with his brother. Maybe it was too much for Vergil to want β maybe he was too much at that age for his brother to want together as he did, but that feeling never stopped for him. No matter how often they would end up at odds with one another or he would have to strike his big brother down. He always wanted them to be together.
He breaks his silence with a puff of laughter from his lips, soft and hollow without any real amusement in it, and he ducks his head down some, licking over his lips as he stares to Vergil's vest. )
Didn't know you were such a sap, bro.
( Lips quirk into a half-smile but his eyes do anything but. He can feel those emotions swimming around within them, threatening to spill in ways he won't be able to hold back. So he takes a second β sinks his teeth so bloody hard down into his bottom lip before he finally looks up to his brother, eyes shining with the threat of that dam he's holding together to break. )
Why didn't you take my hand? ( Even as he asks, his voice is soft, nearly breathless. ) I reached for you, Iβ ( Sucking in a breath, he curls a hand into a fist and thumps it square in the center of Vergil's chest. It lacks any real punch to it, but. It's still firm and it stays there as he stares to it. ) Why didn't you take my hand?
( You left me alone, he can't bring himself to say. )
[As Dante ducks his head, Vergil lets the hand at Dante's face drop down to his own lap. The weak joke doesn't provoke a reaction out of Vergil. He doesn't try to reiterate his sentiment or scold Dante for seemingly dismissing it with a display of his usual cavalier attitude even if some part of him does lightly bristle at it because there's a part of him that worries this is where it's proven to be too little, too late. Perhaps no amount of missing Vergil is enough to make up for the passage of time without one another, for all the times Vergil has pushed his brother away in anger and frustration and in his own stubborn convictions. Instead, he just sits in his silence, meeting his brother's watery gaze wishing that were enough to know exactly what is going through his mind.]
[Dante doesn't leave him in the dark for long on that matter. His voice is thin and weak in a way Vergil's never heard before. Not even when Dante bit back tears and repeatedly insisted he wasn't about to cry because he hadn't cried when he got those bumps and scrapes while nearly crushing the bones in Vergil's hand while their mother cleaned up them up had he sounded so small and desperate. It's antithetical to who Dante is, as Vergil knows him to be. The light fist to Vergil's chest does nothing to help, but Vergil supposes it's not meant to do anything more than distract from what they both know to be true: Vergil cannot say anything that will do anything to ease this hurt. Whatever he says will only make it worse. It does not matter if he speaks the truth, if he deflects, or if he outright lies. Even silence shall not bring Dante relief.]
[Beneath Dante's fist, Vergil's heart pounds. It pounds and pounds and pounds so loudly in Vergil's head, it's all he can really hear as he looks at his brother, futilely wishing that he had something he could offer, something that could ease the pain from the ugly reality. But he has nothing. Nothing that can make it better. Vergil's hand flies up from his lap to grip tightly at Dante's fist in a silent desperation as he shakes his head slightly. For a moment, it seems likely that's all there is to be. Silence. But Vergil tries to works his jaw, and his lips part for a moment in an aborted attempt to speak until he finally manages to push something out.]
...I'm sorry, Dante. Iβ... [His voice cracks, and he stops himself. He swallows thickly, and softly repeats his apology.] I'm so sorry...
[He isn't trying to avoid the question in the end. If Dante were to ask again, he would acquiesce. And he would try, to the best of his ability, to explain his reasonsβboth what he believed at the time and what he knows to be true nowβfor not taking Dante's hand that day. But he knows the reasons aren't good enough. Nothing ever could be a good enough reason for why he did what he did. Not in Dante's eyes. Hell, he isn't even certain they're good enough in his own now with the benefit of hindsight being what it is.]
[He wants to cast his gaze aside. The shame and guilt welling up within him sets every nerve-ending in his body to pull on that instinct, but he stays exactly as he is.]
[He owes Dante that much. Well... He owes him more than that. Far, far more than that. But Dante does not deserve cowardice from him right now.]
( Vergil offers him an apology and he doesn't know how to take it. This conversation β these memories... they pull out various things he's buried deep, deep, deep within him and has refused to revisit around another living person. It wouldn't do any good, he's told himself. What's done is done. The past can't be changed. No matter how many times he wishes it could. So he tries to keep it in. Tries to push it all back down to where he normally does beneath every heartache, every moment of guilt and failure he's ever felt in his life.
And then, it comes out. Spilling from him in an eruption of fiery sorrow. )
It was supposed to be you and me. I would have fought with you. I would have helped you take down that bastard and what he did to mom. To us. That's how it was supposed to be. You and me. Together. Not me having to put you down. Not me having to be the only one left to chase. You and me.
( He feels like he's a kid again. Swinging his wooden sword around and yelling at his brother for how unfair it is that he won't play with him. Trying to list all the reasons why he should and hoping that one of them might get through to him. It's selfish of him to do. Selfish of him to say. But he does. Just like back then. In his upset.
There's a sudden spike in demonic energy from him then and he thumps that fist at Vergil's chest again, a little harder than the last time, grinding his teeth against each other as eyes flash with red and fire. It takes everything within him to reel back the anger he can feel running through his veins β making the air around them grow hot with the familiar threat of his demonic skin to spill over human flesh and take control in the moment.
The devil within him snarls at its twin beneath flesh and bone but... he relents. The fire dims. Doesn't give in. Hangs his head there with that fist pressing firm against Vergil's chest, and then he trembles some. Not out of anger, not out of fear that Vergil might pull away, but out of an uncontrollable sadness that still sits there deep within him, like his devil. One he can taste with the blood on his tongue. When he speaks, it's after he takes a second to swallow β after he crumples forward and presses himself against his brother. )
I would have given anything to have you back with me.
( Almost. To follow in his big brother's footsteps... he couldn't. He knows he couldn't. No matter how much some part of him wanted to. No matter how much he missed him. No matter how he loved him. He couldn't walk the path Vergil had chosen.
Shoulders slumping, fingers go limp and unfurl from the fist he'd so tightly held. )
Please don't leave again. I'm right here. I've always been right here, Vergil.
[As it all spills from Dante, Vergil's hands fall away from Dante. The hand at Dante's fist darts away quickly, almost as though he touched something scalding hot. The hand at his shoulder is slower to fall, but it rests just as uselessly at Vergil's side as the other. As Dante continues on, Vergil looks beyond his brother, past his shoulder and to his pillows and headboard. Demonic energy from Dante spikes and the heat of it radiates off him in waves at that barely contained anger, but all Vergil can feel is a sudden chill, a coldness that runs deeper than just his blood but down to the very marrow of his bones. Vergil sways slightly as there's a harder thump at his chest, and although he expects and waits for more, for worse to follow, he does not brace himself. Because there it is, he thinks. There is that anger and that resentment Vergil long since stoked after burning out whatever else there was, and he knows if he braces himself for it, he will respond in kind, and Vergil does not know what that will ultimately result in or amount to beyond that it will be everything he did not intend. And maybe that will fix it in its own way. Maybe if Dante can release that anger into Vergil, no longer bottling it up or drowning it with liquor bottle after liquor bottle, he might start to heal. With or without Vergil, he just might.]
[He starts a little when Dante presses against him, flinching as though it were a sudden strike despite it being nothing of the sort. Bringing his eyes back into focus, Vergil looks down at his little brother. His tired, sad, lonely, scared little brother. The numbness has not fully left Vergil, but he's cognizant of how heavy Dante feels against him now as he goes limp. He forces himself to remain upright, and subsequently keep Dante the same, but he feels frozen to the spot where he sits. Somehow, Vergil's hands find their way to Dante's upper arms, squeezing them tighter than he necessarily means to hold onto them.]
[Part of him, he would be ashamed to admit, wants to push Dante away. It is not the child that always resented and attempted to shirk his responsibilities to his brother that wants to do it, however. It's a part ruled by guilt and shame, not anger and resentment. Vergil was supposed to take care of Dante. He was supposed to look after him, and keep him out of trouble. He was supposed to protect him from harm both real and imaginary. And yet, he's only ever really managed to do the opposite. It is one thing, Vergil finds, to recognize his shortcomings and failures as a brother. He is not unaware that he has failed Dante time and time again, and that it was always his decision to run from his brother from they were children until they found one another at the cusp of their adulthood. It was still his decision as V to lie and obfuscate the truth to his brother when asking for help because he was too afraid of what Dante might do if he knew with no exclusivity to the worst outcome in that scenario. It is another to feel them made manifest like this. To feel what happens when someone loves him so fiercely that they've dashed themselves upon the rocks again and again and again in what some might consider a fit of madness in believing that something different might happen. If perhaps just this time...]
[There is no explanation that will ever seem reasonable for his decisions. That much remains true. But Vergil realizes now the reason he didn't provide one isn't just because he was afraid of inciting his brother's anger in making it worse. No, he was perhaps more afraid of Dante's empathy. That even as it killed him to know that Vergil deluded himself into thinking he was choosing power above all else to protect himself when in reality it was simply because he was so goddamn afraid... That Dante could offer any semblance of understanding or forgiveness anywhere amid whatever else it might spark in Dante would certainly be his undoing.]
You've always been such a crybaby...
[Vergil's voice is soft and gentle, not at all truly chiding Dante or even dismissing his feelings here and now. If anything, it's the exact opposite as Vergil comes to wrap his arms around Dante just as before with one hand at his back and the other cradling his head.]
[There is nothing Vergil can do about the past. No explanation makes it reasonable. No apology undoes the harm he's inflicted. The regrets he holds over his decisions are simply ones that he will have to carry with him until his dying breath just as Dante has learned to walk with the wounds and scars he carries. The only thing he can do, the only thing they can do now is stay on this path together now that they're on it with one another again.]
[So, it is more seriously that he promises,]
I'm not going anywhere, Dante. I'm done running away. My place is with you.
( It's something he needs to hear β something they both need to hear β and while it may not be his admission to the depths of heartache he's lived with over the years from that day at their home and the decisions Vergil has made along the way, it's... something. For now. Maybe it's all either brother needs for the moment... to be reassured of the other's need for them.
So he remains there against his brother β listens to the gentle reassurances he offers him with hands to his head and back. Protective. Like when they were kids. He's quiet, like back then. Searches for the beat of his brother's heart and sinks into the gentle rise and fall of his chest with every slow breath. Just like back then. A forgotten comfort that's become so familiar again.
There's conviction in those words. He can hear it, despite the gentleness in which he gives them, and he knows his brother is capable of following through with his word when he gives it β when he sets his mind to it and decides that's simply how it's going to be. He knows that he means it and that he intends to see it through, but. To simply forget the years of guilt and failures he's carried with him... the heartache and anger and depression he tends to wade through because of how broken he feels inside... gentle reassurances are not enough to heal those scars that still very much bleed for him.
But it's a start, at least.
There's a breath on his lips then β soft. Blue eyes having fallen shut as he lays there against Vergil without any signs of intending to move. He's still cooling down β still making sure his devil is in check and quiet behind warm flesh before he even thinks to gently let his eyes flutter open, staring across the room from where he's lazing against his brother. )
You promise?
( You promise? He remembers asking his brother when they were kids and he'd been lazing against him much like this beneath the sheets of their bed, scared from the nightmares he'd had and Vergil reassuring him that nothing would happen to him β that he would keep him safe while he closes his eyes. )
[Two words spoken without hesitation. Vergil is not a fool, and knows the weight of that promise, and that it goes far deeper than his promises as a child to not let the monsters in the closet get to his little brother. The history that lays between them is messier, uglier, and far more unkind than whatever beast Dante's overactive imagination conjured in his sleep when they were little. But unlike the battles that came before, Vergil knows this will be something worth fighting for. All that he's done to claw and scrape his way out of his lowest point simply cannot be for nothing.]
So, no more talk of living my life as though you are not part of it. Do you understand me? I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. I won't let you.
[He does not say it aloud, not so directly, but Vergil knows he cannot do this without Dante. Undoubtedly, Vergil has come a long way on his own, but what has been presented to Vergil in this place has not truly pushed nor challenged him in ways he knows he will be with Dante and Nero both. There is so much farther he could have gone, he will go with the pair of them, and with Dante especially.]
[For all their differences and the hardships and lost time, Dante remains the person who knows Vergil best. Who understands him when Vergil hasn't even said a word, and predicts what he will do before he's even thought to do it. He has also always driven Vergil to be better, stronger. Most often, it has been out of an unspoken competition, a need to be the superior of the two that comes with being the eldest. But there have been times where that was not the case. When they were little and Vergil was capable of occasionally making the better choices to protect Dante rather than push him away. For all his complaints of how annoying Dante was, he did not want Dante to turn to anyone else for protection and reassurances.]
[Now? Vergil knows he has more or less lost that responsibility. Some of that a result of his choices, and some of that simply being the natural consequence of time continuing to march forward as Dante grew up. So, Vergil does not seek that. But he would like to be the person Dante knows he can rely upon. That when he needs Vergil, he will be there. Not gone. Not taken. Not far beyond his reach. There. He would like for there to be more than just their hurt and grief and trauma as something shared between them, that makes them know their bond is truly unbreakable and real.]
You know I hate repeating myself, but I will make an exception to get through that thick skull of yours. [Vergil makes a fist and lightly bumps it on the crown of Dante's head, not remotely hard enough for it to hurt.] I will say it as many times as you need me to that I'm not going anywhere.
[He frames it lightly, stepping around their history in a way that he believes will feel more comfortable for Dante than what comes naturally to Vergil to avoid digging further at the vulnerability Dante has displayed here, but he means it. As many times as Dante needs to be told, Vergil will make the promise again and again and again.]
( He feels exhausted from this and it's just barely the tip of the iceberg that holds Dante's locked up regrets, failures, and emotions he's carried for years on his own. There are so. many. things. he wants to say. So many things that are screaming at him from within β demanding to be let out and freed after so many years of being locked up and suppressed again, and again, and again. So many things the boy covered in tears and blood, cowering in the dark corner of a closet wants to say β wants to scream and cry at his brother. But he doesn't. He can't. Because that would be admitting the very real pain he still carries with him and that his wounds, which one would think are mostly scars, still bleed time and time again beneath his skin.
Bleed onto a devil beneath the skin which he still doesn't entirely admit to either.
So he blows out a sigh at the gentle bop to his head β at the words his brother offers him for reassurance there and in the silence he lets follow those words, he turns his head some then, cheek pressing to Vergil's chest. )
Pass me the bottle.
( The one Vergil had taken from him and set aside to sit and have this conversation together. )
[The silence after Vergil finishes speaking is deafening. Silence rarely ever causes Vergil discomfort, but this one does. Even if Dante couldn't put his whole heart into it, even if he was still so incredibly cautious about what Vergil promises and what he asks for in return, Vergil would rather that than the silence that ensues. When Dante does speak, Vergil forgets to breathe for a few seconds with how tight and heavy his chest suddenly feels. If he was any less aware of his own body in space, he would think the bed and floor had all suddenly come out from beneath him.]
[Vergil hesitates to reach for the bottle on Dante's behalf. He doesn't have any desire to tacitly endorse Dante's drinking habits, and he sees no other possible interpretation for the action. (He couldn't even really claim to be turning a blind eye given a more active participation being requested of him.) But neither does he have a desire for an argument with Dante. Or perhaps not an argument, but bitter words that run the distinct risk of evolving into something angrier. Not when it seems the end result shall be the same. Dante will drink whether or not Vergil passes him the bottle.]
[Vergil's eyes go to the alcohol on the nightstand before he nudges Dante to sit up. Once Dante is supporting more of his weight instead of resting it so heavily against Vergil, the elder son of Sparda reaches and picks up the bottle. He does not hand it to Dante right away, however, staring at it in his hand for a moment. No small part of him wants to make off with it. Smash it. Pour it down the drain. Partially because he believes it's better for Dante, and partially because it becomes far too unsettling in its clarity that Vergil is a significant reason why his brother drinks. But just as it will make no difference if he passes it to him or not, neither will some form of destruction of the bottle. Dante will still drink.]
[Wordlessly, Vergil holds the bottle out toward Dante for him to take, his hold on him now loosening to allow him to sit up all the way to drink. He does not look at his little brother, more acutely aware of that wedge between them of shame and guilt and anger and sadness. Vergil held no delusions about the outcome of such a talk as the one they just had, but he wantedβ...]
[It doesn't matter. It just does not matter. His fingers ghost through as they always do or he simply falls short. The end result feels so much the same.]
[He lets it be for today. While Vergil refuses to give up altogether, he knows there's little point in trying any further today. It will just make the apartment feel too small, and promises feel more fragile than they really are. Privately, he hates it. He hates how close Dante is to him now while feeling far beyond his reach. But Vergil shores everything up and steels himself, schooling his expression as he follows Dante's lead in leaving the conversation where it is.]
( For a hot minute, he wonders if his brother is going to hand it back to him. He's not stupid. He knows V saw the bottles around the shop when he'd come to see him. Well over thirty littered throughout as he sat there at his desk, arms crossed, eyeing him and his supposed proposition for a job. While he doesn't know just how much Vergil remembers during V's short existence, he figures he knows enough, just as he knows enough of Urizen and all his tomfoolery done.
To his surprise, he's given the bottle β a little more upright now β and he offers his brother a lazy albeit incredibly faint smile as fingers brush over Vergil's in his taking the bottle back. Without much for hesitation, he takes a swig, head knocked back some as he does, licking over his lips with a pleased little ah after. Already he can feel it chasing away the sorrow, the heartache, the anger that flows through his blood, and he settles back into something more mellowed out despite how incredibly unhealthy chasing it all away with a drink can be.
Whatever. It's worked thus far.
Pulling the bottle away from his lips, he rests it there against his leg, eyes glazed over some before he's blinking it away and he glances over to his brother there at the question posed. Taking a moment, he tilts his head. Contemplates that. Then smiles brightly despite the tiredness there in his expression. Because of course he always puts on a show. )
[Vergil shoots Dante a look that should quite plainly answer his question, but he still provides an answer all the same.]
If you weren't holding an open bottle on my bed, I would have pushed you before you could even finish that question, [he says, withdrawing his remaining arm around Dante so that he can stand up. Tiredness from Dante is to be expected, but the smile on his face and his quickness to follow the change in subject signals to Vergil it's as good as time as any for him to return to his own space.] But fine. We can do pizza again tonight.
I owe you for the books, anyway. [Seeing as how the strawberries lasted all of five minutes... Vergil shakes his head a little as he steps away to return to his book on the couch.] Do yourself a favor and don't try to lie to me about where they came from, or I'm making Greek salads tonight instead.
( He's quiet as he watches his brother β as he listens to the way he agrees to the choice for pizza, yet again, for tonight's meal. He wonders if he merely puts up with it for the sake of him, wanting to play the role of the big brother so eagerly for him as he should have done for the past twentyβ thirty odd years or so. He doesn't fault him for it. He can't. Or else he might as well fault him for wanting to try and take on the role of Nero's father as he should have been throughout his life. He's trying. He knows this. Their past is simply a bitterness inside him that he has to force down at times and dig through the pain to find the sweetness still living there beneath it.
Vergil moves β intends to separate them and return to his book[s] which he matter-of-factly accuses the youngest son of Sparda of being responsible for. Despite the accusation being correct, he still won't admit to it. Instead, he reaches out before the elder son can slip away too far from him β fingers grasping at Vergil's wrist and he stares down to the floor. Quiet. Fingers of his other hand holding to the neck of the bottle resting there against his leg. )
The mind is it's own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
( A line from Vergil's dear Paradise Lost and one which, from how he'd been able to recite it so effortlessly and without the need for second thought, he's read a number of times before. He can relate to in ways he wishes he didn't.
Those fingers there at his brother's wrist grip tightly β a refusal to let him go just yet and he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. )
I read them all. A few times. Can't say they were anything I'd call a favorite of mine. But it was a way to be close to you. To fill the silence of your absence. Sometimes I could hear your voice when I did. Like you were right there. Reading out loud to me. Trying to bore me to death. Sometimes you did.
( Letting fingers slip from Vergil's wrist, they drop down to grip his brother's fingers instead, holding to them still tightly. )
I'm holding you to your word. ( I'm not going anywhere. ) I need you here. I've always needed you.
[Dante's fingers wrap around Vergil's wrist, and he comes to a stop only after a couple of steps down the length of the bed. Not very far at all when Dante recites Milton to him. Standing those few steps from Dante, Vergil does not look back to him. He merely stands and listens. Or does his best to listen, in any case. He's perhaps a little too focused on the hand on his wrist that keeps him in place without any great force or strength to provide his undivided attention to Dante.]
[He still does not admit to being the one to have secured these copies for Vergil, but he doesn't need to in order for it to be proven fact to Vergil. Not any more than he needs to recite lines from one of them for that matter. The gift itself would have been enough on its own, the specific editions reflecting his bookshelf from their childhood. What would truly drive it home were it still somehow unclear is the bittersweet means of staying connected to Vergil when he was gone. It lands more bitter than sweet to Vergil in this moment, having only just pushed everything as far from himself as he could to leave the conversation be. But that feels par for the course for the two of them wherein they begin to align only to find it rapidly not the case. Vergil pushes too hard. Dante plays too much. One or both of them falls out of step with the brief tandem, and it's not long after that at least one of them handles it poorly.]
[He tries not to be the one who does that now as he feels Dante's grip shift to his fingers as he wonders just how long he is to be a spectre to his brother and not the flesh and blood that he is here and now? He says he will hold Vergil to his word, and says that he needs him, but how hard it is not to feel it is all too little, too late when Dante must seek the bottle first. Their past is a complicated one, of course. Vergil is not without his empathy for the difficulty he knows Dante must face in trying to relinquish the past. But it seems so hard to have him not so largely in the past now that it feels almost insurmountable.]
[Dante's grip is tight, but Vergil is able to wriggle his fingers enough that he can adjust his hand within to hold his brother's hand in return. Vergil says nothing as he continues to stand there. Not aloud. His hold on Dante's hand, however, is perhaps the tightest he's ever held it in all their lives. Vergil's grip in return likely borders on painful, almost as though it were their shared grip alone that separated the line between one fate and another for him. A slight lessening of their grip on the other, and that would be it. Vergil says nothing with his own words or borrowed ones, not wanting to begin the conversation anew even as Dante seems to spark it back into life. But he grips Dante's hand against fears and insecurities and the grief and loneliness that have plagued Vergil for the majority of his lifeβthe parts of his life that were his own and not stolen from himβand he hopes Dante understands.]
( Despite the vice grip which his hand seems to be trapped within, he lets the pain shoot up his hand β lets it bleed into the depth of his soul and touch the devil within him to awaken. There's no sudden spike in demonic energy from him β not like earlier when his emotions had begun to flare up and he'd found it almost difficult to control them in the moment. Instead, it's a gradual wave that seems to roll off him and brush against his brother there and with that brush of demonic energy comes the red within his eyes, showing the devil beneath his human skin.
Scales roll over the back of his hand β stretch out to his fingers where claws appear and he keep his hold there on his brother's hand, some touching along the sides of his face. It's only a partial, if that, transformation β of his devil reaching out to its twin as much as he himself does to his brother. Because they share that, too. Red and blue. Fire and ice. Two devils who shared a womb together within a human mother from the moment they'd both been conceived with a mix of demonic and human blood. So different from any other demon they had ever come across. No one else like them. Not since Nero and even then, the things they have shared together, the way they have been in each other's life from the very instant they came into existence only to be ripped apart from one another at such a young age... for as much as Dante reaches out for his brother, so, too, does his devil reach out for its other half.
He swallows thickly β somehow feels even more vulnerable in this partial state. Knowing how Vergil's always felt about their demonic lineage and how he's viewed his little brother as weak for rejecting it orβnot allowing himself to fully accept or even love that part of himself with pride as Vergil always has. Even now, as he sits there, he's still very much human despite the demonic touches visible on him. But for as much as he needs his brother, so does his devil need its other half. When he speaks, it's with a slightly deeper tone β fangs there in his mouth. )
[It's not the spike from earlier. As such, Vergil does not anticipate that the rise in Dante's demonic energy will lead into some form of violence or otherwise lashing out. So, his own alertness at its presence is more out of curiosity than it is anything else. It is not like Dante to call upon his demonic energy like this. Not in a moment that is arguably more idle than anything else, and its presence registers as something more casual than driven by necessity. Vergil, however, in waiting to see what it is Dante intends to do, only looks to Dante when it is scales he feels in his hand instead of the softer human skin that was there only a moment ago whereupon he sees his brother in his partial transformation.]
[It is odd to see his brother mostly human but traces of the devil still prominent regardless of how few they may be compared to his human features. For Dante, his demonic heritage is a tool. It is one he resents almost as much as he resents their father, but it is a tool for him nonetheless. There is, however, no connection between Dante and that part of himself beyond that. It remains an insurmountable divide that, in a strange way, reflects the divide between brothers as well. Dante's resentments just seem to run too deep, and it's too difficult for Vergil to see it from his brother's perspective. The latter, however, seems far easier to mend and close to Vergil than the former. And the divide between brothers is not exactly anything Vergil would claim to be an easy task in the first place.]
[Still, Dante is here, and he reaches for his brother in more ways than just one. It counts for something.]
[The blue of Vergil's eyes brightens to a cyan rather than their softer grey-blue, his sclera darkening with the rise of his own demonic energy. It's neither the sharp spike of heated emotion from Dante a moment ago, nor is it the gradual rise. Instead, it's almost akin to the devil within Vergil stepping forward, as though it has always been there and only with attention being drawn to it does it step forward now. Vergil matches his brother in partial transformation, but to some extent it is more complete. His is not as much of a patchwork of scales and claws. Instead, from the elbow down, Vergil's arm and hand have transformed completely and glow with the same cyan of his eyes while grey scales form along his hairline and cheeks as well as along the sides and back of his neck.]
Together, [he says with a nod.]
[They have been in opposition to one another for far longer than they have not. And there is still some small instinct there for it even now. It would seem impossible not for there to be given how often it is they've clashed with one another, using their demonic powers and forms to wound and fight to bitter ends against one another. But the instinct is small and it is quiet, and there is no power struggle that lies between them now that would amplify it. In this moment, as devils and as men, they are merely brothers. Twins who balk at the thought of being alike and yet still reflect both the worst and best parts of one another, and need one another for that reason.]
[From now on, when one reaches for the other, he will be there. As hard as it may be to reach for or take hold after all their various hurts and wrongs, they will find a way to do it.]
( When Vergil's own devil steps forward, if even partly, he feels a rise in his back β defensive without even meaning to be. Given the years of being at odds with one another, it's more a kneejerk reaction than anything else, but. It's fleeting the moment he sees there is no threat to be concerned with, no fight to suddenly erupt between them. Just two partly changed devils who share human blood within them.
Bright red eyes watch the other devil's face β quiet in the way his gaze sweeps over his brother's arm and the power he can feel gently radiating off him. It's familiar enough β one he's met time and time again when facing his brother. It simply feels different than usual given the circumstances... given the fact that they are not at each other's throats. To be wearing his demonic skin as he is, even just barely as he is, it has him feel some sort of way about it and with the way Vergil looks to him, he doesn't hold it for very long. Because with Dante, it's always a matter of holding it β controlling it rather than simply letting it be.
Fire gently rolls over him and the scales disappear from his face and hand, as do the claws and the red burning there in his eyes. He ducks his head some β lets himself take a breath, then smiles lazily up to his brother before he's letting his hand slip away from him. )
You're a sap. Anyone ever tell you that?
( A bit of lightheartedness so as to go back to feeling like himself and tuck the devil away again. )
[Vergil's own demonic features do not linger much further past Dante's, leaving behind human skin and grey-blue eyes as his demonic power is withdrawn back within himself. He rolls his neck a little as Dante releases his hand, Vergil's hand coming back down more properly to his side with nothing holding onto it. At the comment, Vergil scoffs and decides to play along.]
You're one to talk being as big of a crybaby as you are.
[Reaching over, Vergil places his hand on top of Dante's head. He musses that mop of white and gray and only takes his hand back after he's given a light, playful shove to Dante's head to push it down again.]
Head shoved down, he leans off the bed some and snaps his teeth a few times, pretending to bite at his dear big brother before he flops back against the bed, resting back on his hands with a heavy sigh. )
Youβre lucky Iβm too tired to tackle your ass to the ground and make you say uncle.
Now who is starting to slow down in his old age? [he asks as he starts to step away again, rolling his eyes with a light smile. As he goes, Vergil lifts and tugs one of Dante's legs off the bed.] And get your boots off my bed.
[He fully anticipates Dante will just put his leg back up the moment he's on the other side of the divider, but still. Vergil sleeps there. Occasionally Nero does, too. He doesn't want dirty boots on his blankets, and things have returned to a place where he can more comfortably scold Dante for it.]
[Not that Vergil says anything about it one way or another when he returns with his book and settles in beside Dante until he needs to get up and get dinner squared away before Nero gets home, accommodating Dante when his little brother inevitably begins to restlessly sprawl and flops onto him, limbs akimbo as always.]
It is morning, late morning by Mizu's general routine established in Folkmore. Though she woke up at the same time as usual, she's yet to rise from bed. The reason for that lies beside her, an arm thrown over her waist. Soft steady breathes come out, and Mizu lies there warm and happy for all she knows it will not last. It exists in the moment. Mizu brushes back Vergil's hair and watches his chest rise and fall. Mornings have always been for work from the time she was young. That was no less true when raising horses than it was when forging swords. An early start is the way to proceed at anything, including revenge.
For all that, Mizu doesn't deliberately wake Vergil up or leave the bed. Instead she cannot help but be reminded of the only other time she's shared a bed. Those were not mornings but evenings and nights. Quiet musings of conversations when her mother slept nearby. In time, Mizu shared parts of herself Vergil has mostly known from the beginning. That's the only way she can lay there and trust that he will stay for any length of time. A poisoned part of her mind wants to suggest Vergil might not be so different, should Mizu beat him, but Mizu remembers the way Vergil kissed her next to the pool when she pinned him to the ground. He would not leave because she beat him in sparring. If that signals anyone to leave, it's her.
Mizu put Mikio out of her mind since she left their home. She'd set him behind her until Fowler's damn monkey drugged her. It came pouring back then, and it's only become more insistent since she and Vergilβ well, to be fair, it makes some sense that it would come to mind. Her only prior romantic experience. She'd rather it didn't, and Mizu wonders if speaking about it would make it lose its power. It could, or it could make it worse.
It's part of everything. It's part of her everything. So long as Mizu plans to live by that, it will come up. It already has because she's lying next to Vergil and instead of thinking solely of him, another man comes to mind. Unbidden. Unwanted. Restlessly, she shifts and adjusts to pull Vergil closer, like that could be enough to push Mikio's memory away.
Vergil sleeps better in general these days. He still tends to sleep minimally, but it is better sleep all the same. When he is in his apartment with his brother and son, despite the constant thunderous snores that emit from on the pull-out, Vergil finds himself at enough of a peace that rest comes easily when he goes looking for it. For as unpredictable and tenuous and genuinely difficult all the matters appear to be, they are at least under one roof and safe.
With Mizu, it's almost strange how it can all at once feel the same and yet so completely different. Unlike in his apartment, Vergil settles down at the same time as the other person in the cabin rather than simply going about his business quietly until he intends to sleep as well. Sometimes they make love whether it be a sudden fit of passion, a playful escalation of affections, or a slow build of intimacy wherein there's no rush in exploring every inch of the other all over again. Other times they lie awake with one another, speaking quietly in the dark as though there were the chance of prying ears. But also, it's sometimes perfectly content and companionable silence that fills the room as they curl up with one another beneath the blankets. Often it is Vergil who watches Mizu drift off first just as it had been in Amrita, and he does not mind. He admires the little marks he's left along her skin after their lovemaking, or simply listens to the soft sighs and hums that occasionally slip from her in her sleep, or ensures he lies perfectly still to allow her the deepest sleep Mizu affords herself to have. Eventually, on those nights, he joins her in sleep, but he always basks in the warmth between them regardless of what they've done or how long he has with her before sleep takes her.
It's what leaves him often so stubborn first thing, delaying the inevitable of when she will want to start her day officially by keeping her in bed with him for as long as he can. He uses every trick he can think of, makes every argument he can possibly make before he's willing to concede. And even then, he has not been above attempting to look as morose and pathetic in her absence as he possibly can to trick her into coming within arm's reach once more, and playfully snaring her in his arms until she's successfully paid for her freedom with an adequate number of kisses that is never at all consistent.
When she pulls him nearer, Mizu wakes him. But Vergil's eyes do not open, nor does he particularly stir. He simply allows her to move both herself and him as she wills, and he lies there as she leaves him, still and breathing his deep, steady breaths.
"Why are you awake? It's not morning yet," he says eventually, his voice rough with sleep. He's aware it actually is morning, of course. Mizu wakes at nearly the exact same time each day without fail, a habit she maintained even when they were trapped in Amrita and there were fewer options afforded to her to fill her day with. Vergil draws her in even closer, pressing her against himself with a light squeeze as he buries his face in her neck. Vergil's hold loosens just long enough to reach for the blankets and pull them up a little further to more properly tuck her back in. Against her skin, he mumbles, "Don't you dare get up now."
Her arm wraps tighter around Vergil, and Mizu intertwines their legs. She in no way getting up, no matter that for nearly a year she would already be out of bed by this time, rising as soon as she regained consciousness. Except for the time at Amrita, it's been this very bed in this very cabin. Only without someone else in the bed. It always felt large to her, too large a bed for a single person, yet she hadn't cared to waste the Lore to replace it. She slept in the too large bed by herself until... some nights, she doesn't. Mizu may have risen per her schedule if Vergil too rose as one might come morning. Instead he stays, and he holds her there, and he gives reasons she should stay. More than any argument, the fact Vergil wants to stay there with her and the fact he isn't always there convinces her. It convinced her first when she was hungry for him after a short time apart. Then slowly again and again until she's already prepared to stay in bed. No more morning appointments (never mind he can save her time on the train, and that time is best suited to be in bed, as arguments have been made). Until it's now expected. Part of her routine.
"It is morning," Mizu insists, though she goes nowhere. Her cabin has windows, and on a second story, Mizu doesn't worry about someone looking in. Not that the sun is much in Wintermute at this time of the year. It's darkened as it was when she first moved here. Mizu hasn't brightened the room yet, so they remain in the dark where it may be denied it is morning. It looks far less like morning than any other region.
She's glad Vergil is awake, much as she enjoys how he looks at rest, relaxed in her arms and trusting her, trusting he's safe with her. It's different in the same bed than sleeping side by side on the road or on the floor of a shrine. It's not the safety of knowing Taigen only wants to kill her honorably or Ringo... Ringo. No, the closest similarity remains that time she continually wants to push from mind. Even the darkness helps, so that morning resembles the middle of the night. Mizu sighs as Mikio's face comes to mind again. Mizu leans into Vergil and breathes him in.
"Stay awake with me," Mizu says, "No falling asleep to keep me here." Because she never leaves while he's asleep. He always knows when she gets upβnever has to wonder.
As Mizu tangles them up further with one another, Vergil allows for it easily and accommodates her legs intertwining with his. He is otherwise still and comfortable to remain where he is, but Vergil clicks his tongue just once as she tells him not to fall asleep. There's a pause as he sighs deeply, breathing in her scent and says nothing for a moment or two longer, as though he is about to act in defiance and go looking for sleep right then and there. He could. The bed is still warm from the both of them, and she is close and at rest even if she is not in as much danger of falling asleep with him. But Vergil would not deny her a simple request like that.
"I don't know what I find more offensive: the fact you asked me to sacrifice so much of my sleep last night already only to ask for more, or that you would accuse me of employing such an unimaginative tactic," he teases before lightly nuzzling at her. Despite his playful protesting, Vergil finally moves his head back onto his pillow, removing his face from where it was buried in her neck, and blue-grey eyes open. Vergil absentmindedly traces a pattern over one of her shoulder blades with his fingertips. "It's not like you to ask me to stay awake though. Bad dream?"
The question of her dreams is not to insinuate that she experienced a nightmare or was otherwise afraid of whatever she might have dreamed. Instead, it is more a question of whether or not Mizu's dreams had veered into something unpleasant and left her with things she would rather not dwell upon lingering her mind. Vergil doesn't possess the intention to push for her to talk about it if that ends up being the case. Mizu either will talk about it or she will seek distraction. Either way, he's awake and present enough to serve to either end so that her day might start a little more pleasantly than it may be threatening otherwise.
CW: references to fire, injury/death from fire, sex work, arranged marriage
His response almost makes her laugh. The idea that Mizu's robbed Vergil of enough sleep to make a difference is laughable, and he certainly has not run out of tactics to keep her in bed should Mizu resist more strongly than she has. She even enjoys watching him sleep in the morning, so that unimaginative or not, it is a welcome tactic. Such small simple matters shouldn't be enough to pull at her heart, but they are. Mizu knows her bed will still smell of him when she goes to sleep tonight even once all the warmth is gone. He doesn't need to know that she curls up with a blanket that smells of him and holds it close, at least the first night after.
The more serious statement returns her attention to what bothered her before. How rude it is that those memories should disturb her in these moments. Yes, Vergil is older than her, but beyond that, there are few commonalities he shares with Mikio. Mizu refuses to give mind to those thoughts, the ways in which they are different, at this moment with Vergil there with her. She wishes they never pushed themselves into her mind, but she will not give them silent possession of her mind while Vergil is with her.
Mizu could distract herself, lose herself in being with Vergil, and enjoy every moment of it because it is wonderful. The thoughts would only return later, as she well knows, and Mizu wants them gone. As loath as she is to put them to words, something Mizu has never done, it may well be the way to banish them. The fact Vergil shared so deeply of his own pain and trauma, of events far worse than what Mizu has gone through, only provides another reason. He could share that. What are these memories in comparison? People being people, no better or worse than Mizu could expect of them.
"Bad memories," Mizu clarifies. "I told you before about the fire when I was a child and how I wound up on the street afterward. I thought my motherβthe woman I thought was my motherβdied that day." Died because Mizu left the shack and showed herself. Died because of Mizu. "When I left swordfather for my revenge, I traveled widely across Japan. I stumbled across her selling herself on a bridge."
It was fortuitous for Mizu, who may otherwise have died as one and all refused to help her with her injuries. Except it was also horrible and something she wishes never happened. She'd have survived somehow and without everything that followed.
"I told her I could take care of her. I had money I'd saved, and I'd made money as I traveled, enough for bribes and other expenses. Or I had," Mizu's voice turns bitter, "She spent it all shortly. She asked me to take care of her the way a daughter is expected to take care of her mother." A snort escapes. "This from the woman who told me I always had to live as a man. Except, of course, when it suited her. I felt responsible for what happened to her, her face was covered in burns, and I cared for her, so I agreed.
"Which is how I ended up married to a disgraced samurai in the mountains." At long last, mention of Mikio himself. Mizu pauses there to give Vergil time to digest the information and to react. She pauses to give herself time before she speaks of the relationship she's never spoken of. Married. Mizu'd never said those words out loud before, true as they are.
cw: references to arranged marriage, potential spousal abuse
Vergil listens quietly as Mizu describes the bad memories. Or rather, the beginning of them. He doesn't visibly react to anything she says to start. There is no shift subtle or otherwise in his expression as she speaks of her mother (or rather the closest thing she's ever known to a mother) and their conflict over money although Vergil has a degree of skepticism when Mizu boils down her decision to do as was asked of her to be a matter of guilt. Not to say that Mizu probably did not feel a degree of it, of course. Even if she was a child and therefore, responsibility for the tragedy that befell them was not hers to bear, that does little to dissuade guilt from resting upon her all the same. Vergil knows that. But he suspects there's a degree of bitterness that colors it now for Mizu and removes what surely had to have been love a child holds for their parent regardless of everything else. After all, Vergil does not believe any guilt Mizu may possess would have been strong enough to dissuade her from her revenge. Her mother had seemingly arisen from the dead. Nothing else would have mattered to the child Mizu once was, and it was that very same child that would do what it took to please the person who once had been all she had in the world. Especially after parting with her swordfather on such poor terms.
But he keeps his skepticism and speculation to himself. Her relationship with her mother and the conflicts that arose after their reunion is only the beginning. Instead, Vergil listens and continues drawing his patterns on Mizu's back.
His brow only furrows a little as Mizu speaks of performing her duty as a daughter by accepting her arranged marriage. The marriage itself is not the thing that strikes Vergil, however. He understands that Mizu comes from an era where she was never likely going to be afforded the opportunity to choose for herself as a woman or a man, and there's little sense in moralizing over whether that is right or wrong. It simply is what it is, was what it was. Rather instead, even without Mizu's comment about her mother's hypocrisy after pushing for her to disguise herself as a boy, as a man, Vergil understands the inherent risk in this arrangement. They had looked for a girl, not a boy, Mizu said. And so, for the chance to provide for her mother, Mizu chanced and risked everything by living as a woman, marrying a stranger who owed her nothing, and was not guaranteed to protect her. It's that fact alone that has caused the look on Vergil's face even if he is willing to refrain from too much speculation regarding her bad memories.
"Did he mistreat you?" he asks because Vergil doesn't doubt that it would be an easy thing for this disgraced samurai to do. What consequence would there possibly be to him if he did not treat his bride with kindness and respect? Who else could she possibly turn to if he held anything over her head? Mizu is capable of caring for herself, of course, but with her mother to concern herself with, it would not be unreasonable that she would tolerate cruelty for her sake and her sake alone.
cw: references to arranged marriage, drug use/addiction, racism, inequal power dynamics
The isolation in the mountains was supposed to protect Mizu, and indeed she did not go to town. She did not see people beyond her husband and her mother. Her world became small, smaller even than it was with Master Eiji. It lasted far longer than Vergil may yet suspect. It could have lasted longer, save for who her mother and Mikio were.
"No," Mizu replies. For all she despises Mikio, he was a far better husband than most women ever receive. "The first night, I went to bed with my sword, but he only entered the room, said he was not a brute, and pulled his mat to the other side. He got annoyed if I distracted a horse he was training, but he ate the terrible food I made without complaint, eventually with laughter, I helped with the chores, and we fell into a rhythm of life. He taught me how to ride better, and I connected with Kai, the horse he'd been trying to break for months. We cut my mother off of opium, and it continued that way for seasons. Almost a year."
Mizu sighs. It's easier to talk about things that happened, facts, than emotions, than what developed between them. The nights Mizu expected him to change his pattern and pull his mat up next to hers. The chemistry between them. The silent looks where they understood each other. Mizu traces her hand along Vergil's skin to ground herself in the present and with him. This, all this, is in the past. Once Mizu exorcises it, it will not even haunt her thoughts. It is only that is her prior experience being with someone. That's all.
"When he chose to give me Kai, instead of presenting her to his lord, I kissed him, and we became something more. We were already married, but we became close. We slept together. We talked. I told him about living as a man, about my revenge," Mizu explains. She's passing over time, skipping so much, but it doesn't matter. It's what happened at its core. She trusted Mikio with who she was. And he, well, he was no Vergil.
She's never distanced herself from her emotions, and Mizu cannot help the anger that creeps into her voice. "He wanted to see my skills with a sword, but he could not handle that I was a better fighter than him, that I defeated him with his own weapon the naginata the first time I used one. After I won, after I grappled and pinned him and held his own blade to his throat, I kissed him, and he pushed me away and called me a monster."
That Mizu would do such a thing won't surprise Vergil, and he is not like Mikio. He kissed her when she pinned him. Her fingers dig into Vergil's back. It was over so quickly after that. Mizu takes deep breaths to steady herself before they reach that point.
"He gave Kai to his lord." And Mizu? Mizu worked to reconcile things between them. It's so foolish looking back to think there was anything to reconcile. To think they could get back to where they'd been and made it work. Mizu'd had a taste of... something, and she wanted it back even though it already slipped through her fingers. What came, what happened, it was already what it would be.
cw: reference to racism, sexism, arranged marriages
The cold start to her marriage is not entirely unsurprising to hear. Of what Mizu has said regarding how others tend to view and receive her, that was likely the best outcome she could have likely hoped for in a husband and not just limited to the beginning. If that was all her relationship had been to this disgraced samurai, Mizu likely would have considered it a good marriage in the end. But as Mizu continues to describe her time with her husband, it becomes clear that something else began to blossom between them. Their co-existence lent itself naturally, learning about one another as they learned to fall into a comfortable rhythm with one another. In a sense, nothing about what Mizu describes is all that remarkable. It is likely the sort of thing that happened between many of those in an arranged marriage wherein strangers gradually grow into friends and with enough time and attention, they grow into something more.
Strange as it may be to think given that no small part of Vergil does quietly bristle at the idea of another having such intimacy with Mizu, but Vergil is glad Mizu had something more. That there was something in her life that at least gave her the notion for even a short while that she was lovable, and that she felt safe enough to part with pieces of herself that she in all likelihood intended to never share for even a moment with another person.
Which really only serves for Vergil's own anger to rise, matching the anger Mizu cannot entirely contain when she describes his betrayal of that trust she placed in him. (Little does Vergil know that it is merely the beginning.) Were he still on that line between sleep and wakefulness, what she says would have likely pulled him firmly on the side of wakefulness. She told him not that long ago how commonplace it is for others in her world to consider her a demon, a monstrous thing incapable of anything but destruction and suffering. But this is not some stranger who happened to see the true color of her eyes in a fleeting moment. This was her husband. Someone who claimed to have loved her. And he could not accept her for who she is in totality. That, Vergil believes, is not love. Not true love as it is meant to be and what Mizu deserves.
"He was a small, weak man then," Vergil says bluntly. He ceases his tracing of patterns along her shoulder blade to more firmly wrap his arms around her, tight and protective. "His pride was fragile enough that you managed to bruise it, and he chose to be a coward in response."
Vergil is not unaware that her heritage was likely a factor in that fragility of his pride, as was her sex. Being bested by his wife of mixed descent was likely a significant blow to a man already brought low by his previous disgrace and exile. But the factors being known and having some understanding of her husband's perspective does not somehow make any of this right. He knew giving away Kai was only ever going to hurt Mizu. It was a cowardly attempt to make Mizu feel small and asserting himself as the superior because he felt entitled enough that he could not just rescind something he gifted to her, but that he could rescind anything.
Including his love. Or what he pretended to be love.
Love can be damaged. It can be spoiled and ruined and broken, and it can even be morphed into something far uglier than its former self. But it is simply not something that can be taken back so readily and easily. Her husband cared for her for a time, Vergil will not deny that much. But he did not love her.
So, it is not that Mizu is or ever was unlovable. Her husband was too small, too weak, too cowardly to ever truly love her.
cw: reference to racism, sexism, arranged marriages, murder
Mizu has bruised the pride and ego of many a small, weak man. They were not nearly so hurt as they would be if they knew she is a woman, only Mikio's known that, but her status as a half-breed was enough for Taigen to lose his honor and, she suspects, get kicked out of his dojo. The ridiculousness of that is something else, given everyone in the dojo lost to her, but the point stands. Mizu is not supposed to be as good a swordsman as she is. As a wife, she shouldn't be one at all. Except Mikio wanted, he said he wanted, to see her for who she truly is, not how her mother wants her to be. He didn't expect her to be better than him, not someone who taught herself and never had a master, not a mixed breed, not a woman, certainly not all of those things together. Mizu didn't expect him to reject her, not when they built so much between the two of them over such a long period of time.
They were both fools.
"He chose the far fetched hope that giving Kai to his lord would restore his honor over what we had, what we were," Mizu says firmly and without forgiveness. He could have never given her Kai. He could have chosen that from the beginning, and Mizu wouldn't have held it against him. It's only because he chose her before and that he called her a monster that it hurts so much. That she doesn't forgive it.
It isn't even the worst part of that day. Mizu leans against Vergil and lets him hold her and takes comfort in finding something better. She's not sure she'd ever talk about Mikio and those days without that.
"There was little time to consider the issue, however, because no sooner had my mother informed me of this fact than the sound of multiple hoof beats came from outside. I did not wish to give myself away by bringing my sword, should it not concern my identity, so I tucked a kitchen knife into my obi and went out to meet them. The men immediately dismantled and approached me with weapons. I asked them what white devil they servedβI've never found out who placed the price on my headβbut they only pointed me out as the devil present."
Mizu pauses and sighs. There's only two ways those men could learn of her existence at that location: her mother or Mikio. She didn't need to hear more to know that, but everyone loves to injure a demon like her. Everyone in Japan, at least.
"They told me someone turned me in for the bounty. It was drawing toward a fight when I heard Mikio returned. He was on his horse, saw the scene, and left." Bitterness bleeds through those words. He not only sold her horse but left her to fight and if she were not good enough to die. "I killed them all. When it was over, Mikio returned and apologized. Said he'd been a coward and wanted to make things right between us."
Mizu scoffs. "If he'd fought them with me, if he'd said that and stood by my side, I would have forgiven him."
Except, he didn't. He was a coward through and through.
"My mother came out and accused him of betraying me. Since she was smoking opium, he asked her how she bought it and accused her of betraying me. They argued and fought, and I walked away, drenched in blood. He stabbed her and begged me for forgiveness. I threw the knife over my shoulder, just the way he'd taught me to cut a peach from a branch, to land right in his eye." Mizu's tone is cold and distant, recounting events rather than emotions. "I eventually came back for my things, to pack what supplies and money there was, and left."
It was over in a handful of minutes. So much gone so quickly once everyone showed their true selves. The sum total of her romantic experiences before Vergil.
Vergil is quiet for a long moment after Mizu finishes telling the story of her marriage. There is much in what she says as well as in what she doesn't say. Vergil notices almost immediately the significant absence of emotion as she describes the very end. That she tells him almost as though she were speaking of a sequence of events happening to another or in some story she had half-forgotten the details of rather than something that happened to her. But he knows there's more to it than that. The woman she believed to be her motherβwho was the closest thing Mizu ever had to a motherβmay very well have betrayed her yet again in an eagerness for money rather than possessing love for her surrogate daughter after already putting her own interests ahead of Mizu in arranging the marriage in the first place. And as for her husband? He already betrayed her several times before choosing to look the other way. He asked to see her skills, and when she was better, he called her a monster. And rather than finding some way to reconcile his own weakness, to truly apologize to her for that misstep, he exerted whatever meager semblance of control he could by selling her beloved horse, a gift he had once bestowed upon her in budding affection.
In reflecting upon it, Vergil realizes it does not ultimately matter who sold Mizu out. They both had already betrayed their promises of love and care for Mizu plenty enough that there was never any recovering from that. Not really. Because although Mizu herself acknowledges she would have offered forgiveness to her husband if he had stood beside her in the end, Vergil doesn't believe it would have been enough. Something else would have happened, some implicit demand placed upon Mizu in the name of a selfish love that serves only to protect his fragile ego, and there would have been a different end to it. And as for her mother...? Vergil is less certain how those matters would have ended themselves, but she cared for her money and opium, not her daughter. Vergil possesses even greater doubts she would have been able to change than he does for Mizu's husband knowing she abandoned Mizu once as a child, helpless and in need of the love and protection of a parent in a world that despised her from birth.
Never seek to tell thy love Love that never told can be For the gentle wind does move Silently invisibly
I told my love I told my love I told her all my heart Trembling cold in ghastly fears Ah she doth depart
What else could Mizu conclude? She opened her heart to another and set aside her own wants to perform her duties as would be expected of her only to be met with the same scorn as before, but because of her vulnerability, it was a wound that hurt deeper than any that came before it. Vergil has always been able to observe and appreciate Mizu has been quite brave in her vulnerability with him. That much was obvious in the way she often fell silent in obvious discomfort, likely wrestling with how much to tell before carefully parting with a buried truth. It is part of why Vergil has never felt compelled to push past her limits because she already likely was in telling him much of anything.
"I have said before your mother should have protected you, and the same is true of him," he says after another beat of silence. Although Mizu was no longer a child as she had been when her mother failed to protect her, and she was more than capable of handling herself, her husband should not have abandoned her either. "Neither of them loved you as they should have, but that fault lies in them. Not you."
He pulls back gently from her so that he can more easily meet her eyes.
"I know it may seem an easy thing for me to say because I am not from your time nor your world, but my words are true regardless." Unwrapping one of his arms from around her, he holds her cheek in his hand. "And I know that to be fact because there is not a single day since you have shared even a single part of yourself that hasn't felt a gift or something to be cherished regardless of what it is."
Her mother should have protected her. Her husband should have protected her. Both of these statements are true and expected of any mother or husband in Japan. Oh, a husband may do any amount of awful things to his own wife. Whether they are known or part of the privacy of their marriage matters not. She is his wife, and he may do as he please. However, a man is expected to protect his wife, a samurai all the more so for being a warrior. A farmer, a fisherman, or a merchant may be forgiven for not being able to withstand warriors, but a samurai? Therein lies his honor. His honor. Mikio's repentance and contrition came from his failure to act the honorable samurai, to protect what's his whatever he feels toward it, and to prove himself brave and capable and honorable. Mikio wanted to regain his honor, and his actions demonstrated he did not deserve it. That drive, that need to prove himself even where his lord cannot see, undercuts any true sentiment and feeling. The only way to get free of the muddled feelings was to cut Mikio down.
Neither of them protected her as they should have. She knows now that she was but a stranger, someone else's babe, an atrocity that her supposed mother took care of so long as the money lasted and the danger was not great. That a strange woman, a stranger, could not love her is far more familiar a sentiment, not so different from the cold shoulders and averted gazes she receives from most people. Mizu was never a person to her mother, only a means to live upon, so of course she would sell Mizu, a stranger she hadn't seen in over a decade, into marriage with a man she'd never met. Of course she would sell Mizu for the bounty when her opium was cut off. It does not reflect anything on either of them. Most likely.
Mizu meets Vergil's gaze, and tears threaten to fill her rounded eyes and spill down her cheek. She was brash, arrogant, and foolhardy when sparring Mikio. She was no honorable samurai meeting him in silent virtue like at a duel. Vergil could imagine her easily or something similar in kind because she's acted the same toward him. Yes, Vergil is a skilled swordsman and of supernatural abilities, such that she has not defeated him yet, but Mizu trusts he would respect her victory. If she were particularly boastful and proud, he might whoop her ass into the ground hard, the way he did after their hand-to-hand sparring when she questions the validity of his abilities. No matter the circumstance, no matter her attitude in all its flaws, the win would be hers and her skill acknowledged. It will be.
So Vergil's words do not come from an ignorance of who Mizu is. Whether or not he's right, she knows he believes it. A half-demon from another world would understand her better than some random person, especially one with a white face like his. His blue eyes are paler than hers, but they're there, familiar beacons, whatever the differences in their experiences. Maybe it takes a demon toβ care for her.
He holds her face and her gaze, and Vergil saysβ
Mizu blinks once, twice, the words tumbling over themselves. It feels as though they lodge in her throat, something too large to grasp and take in. Mizu hiccups once before something breaks. The tears pour out, and Mizu does not understand why she's suddenly sobbing. Stunned, Mizu says nothing, only hiccuping a few more times as she tries to comprehend what Vergil said.
They shared big secrets the first time they met, when they were nothing to each other. It shouldn't have meant anything to Vergil that she shared what she did, forced as it was at the fox spirit's hand, much less something to cherish as a gift. From someone else, she might assume their current feelings colored their memories. That's not Vergil. He may love flowery poetry that Mizu does not understand, but he understands it and himself. Mizu believes him, but she doesn't know how to believe him. She's not a gift. She wants whatever it is Vergil's saying fantastical and foreign as it sounds.
She might lay there in silence forever, unable to reconcile the two, but Mizu knows there is silence, the kind she and Vergil are used to if not entirely comfortable with each time it comes around, and there is silence of a wholly different nature, the kind that comes and sits and weighs everything down until it has all gone wrong. Mizu opens her mouth and is genuinely surprised when she finds herself saying, "Why is it only you?"
Mizu doesn't understand the question, but it's there, something she needed to say. She doesn't expect an answer.
The tears begin to well in Mizu's eyes and it is not long after that they begin to spill. It is difficult for Vergil to say what spurns the tears on exactly, but he would also hazard a guess by the sobs that leave Mizu's breathing uneven and uncontrolled that Mizu also does not know. But it is a great, pent up emotion that Mizu releases now through her tears, and that neither she nor he likely know what to do with. So, Vergil does little to impede it and he lets her cry for a few moments in her silence, watching her in the dark morning. He witnesses her emotion rather than trying to soothe it away, but he stays and he's willing to stay for as long as it takes whether that is for her to seek him out for more comfort or gathering herself back up enough to speak. Tears slip from her face to land quietly and gently upon the pillow she rests her head upon, and he can feel the way each sob shakes her frame. The most Vergil is willing to do is gently wipe away at the tears that manage to reach his hand there on her cheek.
She finds her voice again eventually, and with his hand leaving her cheek, Vergil pulls the blankets up over both their heads. He makes the world even darker, yes, but he also makes it smaller. An intimacy wherein there is only her and him, and their shared warmth and mingling scents as he draws her in closer to himself with both of Vergil's arms wrapped around her once more. This time, his fingertips trace along her neck, slowly and repeatedly as he allows her to hide as little or as much as she wants there in his arms.
"I don't believe it is only me," Vergil says quietly, as if there was a possibility of his voice carrying and the wrong ears were to hear it. The words are only meant for her, but he also knows they are likely difficult words to hear. Even if they are kind ones, they must still be so challenging for her to hear. "There are others. But it is hard, Mizu. It is hard to allow them after everything."
Whether or not Mizu is able to recognize it in the storm of her own emotions, Vergil is speaking from experience. One may crave love, crave the care and attention of others, and yet still find it an impossible and daunting thing to be loved and cared for. Vergil knows this because he has spent the better part of his life craving love, and yet, he has run from it nearly every damn time it has presented itself. It did not matter if it was a failure to recognize his mother's love, rejecting his brother's hand, or fleeing from his son's mother and her kindness. Even here with Mizu, it was not an easy decision on Vergil's part to allow for his feelings, to allow for the possibility that Mizu herself returned those feelings. To be loved is something that requires courage, and he has not possessed that courage for the majority of his life. He doesn't believe Mizu has much herself either. Not very often, at least.
But there have been moments of love in her life. Vergil knows there have been because he has seen it firsthand with her swordfather, and because he himself loves her. Others must have been able to look beyond their prejudices to see her and love her. But Mizu could not see it. She could not understand it. She could not accept it. It is easier to believe herself unlovable and broken in some way, to think it madness to care for her, than to allow herself to be loved and love in return. And Vergil knows what that is like. His reasons may differ, but he knows it all too well that aversion to such vulnerability that comes with connecting with another person.
Mizu buries her face in Vergil's neck. The tears continue to leak out, but the worst of it has passed. The hiccups continue at a slow enough pace she just thinks they may have passed when one jerks its way out of her. Vergil lets her and holds her, and though Mizu is mildly embarrassed, it's as much due to the fact that she doesn't know what's going on with her as the fact she's sobbing. Vergil's seen her cry before, and as before, he's there for her. It makes all the difference than being on her own remembering everything that happened.
Her breathing feels shallow, but Mizu focuses some attention to evening it out. It's small, but it's something she can do, a small way of helping herself. It isn't easy, especially not when Vergil's first response is to contradict her. Her question. That truth that slipped out uninvited. Mizu bites down on her tongue and the urge to immediately correct Vergil. Others. He most likely means Master Eiji. They had a reunion, courtesy of Ringo and quite likely her injured state. Swordfather let her and Taigen recover with him and crumbled before Ringo when the latter decided Master Eiji was his new master. They spoke, and it was better than when she left. He refused to let her use his forge, but she built her own oven to make new steel. He gave her a set of tongs to melt down into the steel.
Something else cracks, and Mizu holds on tighter. She doesn't know whether swordfather accepts her, not really, until she returns from Edo. Until she returns from Folkmore. Once he judges her worthy of one of his blades, she will know they are truly okay. Until then, like Fowler's life, it hangs on a knife point, moments away and forever at a distance. Mizu had to forge her sword, her sword in Folkmore, without his approval. Mizu leans her head against Vergil's. It's something that he believes Master Eiji will prove true, that she will prove worthy of his approval. It also cannot be known for certain until it happens.
"Everyone else has left me, and they do not know the worst things I have done," Mizu says. Vergil doesn't either, not the specifics. Other than burning down Edo, which is the worst thing she's done when it comes to a matter of scale. However, it lacks the horror of the intent, the personal interaction, and the callous disregard for whoever had to die to enable Mizu to reach her ends. Even so, Mizu's sure Vergil would not judge her for them. Everyone else? They cannot even handle what they know.
She wrinkles her nose then shakes her head a little. "Well, I guess there's Rin." So much as Mizu's let Rin in.
"That foolish girl," Vergil says, the trace of a quiet laugh in his voice when he speaks. "She is tougher than she looks."
Certainly far more tenacious than Vergil would have expected her to be, in any case. Vergil thinks if Mizu were to be as honest with Rin as she is with Vergil, it would not end with Rin leaving. Oh, the girl is liable to have a large emotional outburst over some facts of Mizu's life that Mizu probably has no idea what to do with nor likely would care to manage, but Rin would persist for longer than that outburst in the end. If Mizu's attitude hasn't been enough to scare the little thing off, not much is likely to succeed to that end.
"I cannot speak to the others in your world," he plainly admits, returning to the broader topic at hand. Vergil was not there when events unfolded, and in the absence of the fox spirit's trickery and games, he only has Mizu's version of events, which he knows is liable to be skewed. "But do you think perhaps it could be as it was with your swordfather?"
Master Eiji and Mizu did not part on the best of terms the first time as Vergil well knows. However, it was never really a question to Vergil of whether or not it was Mizu that Master Eiji was rejecting. It always seemed to him that it was Mizu's decision that angered her swordfather. His expectations for her in how he raised her did not align with the decision she was making, and his anger was likely rooted in a fear of what would become of her if she truly committed herself to that decision. While he was still clearly displeased with her decision upon their reunion, and likely many of the decisions that came after given Master Eiji refused to contribute to her self-destruction, he did not refuse her. He still allowed Mizu the opportunity to prove herself, to make decisions that would enact her revenge without sacrificing herself in the process.
And Vergil knows all of that to be exceptional as the love of a parent to their child tends to be. He is not implying that others may have the same patience, the same willingness to tolerate decisions they perceive to be mistakes. But there may yet be some. There may be some bonds Mizu has managed to form where there is that chance for a repair to be made, an opportunity to prove herself if she is willing to take the risk in trying for it.
Like Vergil, Rin was not immediately swept up to Amrita Academy. She too was out in the wild landscape that exhausted even Vergil so much that he slept nearly immediately upon his return. Rin stayed out there another week, and her injuries did not require immediate medical attention. Her clothes paid a price, and she was famished, but after a shower and a hot meal, she leapt immediately into helping others in the kitchens. Mizu agrees with Vergil that Rin is foolish. Her time seeking revenge does not erase that she is a rich girl raised well, loved, and educated. Her ignorance over Mizu's eyes made Mizu snap, but each time Rin gets that reaction from Mizu or her grumpiness or anything else, for some reason, she sticks around. Mizu suspects Rin has less experience with the darkness her revenge has brought her too, and some of it may prove too much to stomach. Yet they've known each other a long time now, so much as Mizu knows most anyone. Rin always wants to know more, but Mizu still isn't sure she's ready for it.
It is something to consider, but Mizu sets those thoughts aside when Vergil speaks again and the conversation returns to where it originally was, where Mizu's thoughts lie. Where people consider her a monster, a demon, an onryΕ. It's what Taigen considered her growing up, and she stands between him and his honor yet. It's how Akemi treated her for taking Taigen from her side and for abandoning her to her father. Oh Akemi accepted Mizu's help escaping, but it was not for any friendly feelings. It's why Ringo returned the bell, the symbol of his apprenticeship. Mizu never anticipated the cheap item to mean so much. She only wanted him to stop appearing out of nowhere before her. Yet receiving it hurt more than she expected. It's where the story Mizu shared, of her mother and her husband, ended. Mizu, the monster.
Vergil does not mention her mother or Mikio. He does not know of Taigen, Ringo, or Akemi. It circles back to thoughts she herself considered only moments before. It takes no tricks of reading her mind to approach this subject however, not when Vergil has twice raised the issue of Master Eiji being her father, as well as her master. Of everyone in her life, he's known her the longest, seen her grow from a young child to an adult, and taught her much of what she knows. If only one person in Mizu's life were to accept her and to love her fully, she would want it to be him. The thought, recognized consciously, aches because it's the kind of wish that someone like Mizu never gets fulfilled. Wishing for it, leaning on it in any way, only asks for more heartbreak and pain. She will have her revenge. She will not change that for anyone, and in so doing, she may never have swordfather's approval. Mizu may leave the limbo that Folkmore is, kill Fowler, and return only to be rejected once more, only to leave for London worse off than she is now.
Mizu adjusts to lay her head on the pillow, to see Vergil's face, if not particularly in focus for how close they are. Tears stain tracks down her face, but Mizu ignores them and leaves them be. Everything feels raw and on edge without the adrenaline rush and enjoyment of a fight. Nothing to direct and drive her emotions through. Only words and Vergil's arms around her, and his back under her hands. Vergil's warm, and the bed and sheets around them are warm despite how cold it is outside, and Mizu... Mizu is comfortable, physically, if nothing else. It drives a stark comparison to the piercing painful question, to thinking about swordfather and his rejection of her, about their conversation on the cliffside about being an artist.
"He wanted an apprentice, someone to work with him and to continue to make swords as he does, as an artist. Everything he does he does to make good swords. I cannot be that person. So long as my revenge is incomplete, I can never be that person. I have never been that person. He did not understand my desire to train with a sword. He allowed it, but he understood I would have trained whether he allowed it or not. Once my revenge is complete, even should I decide that returning and becoming a swordsmith is what I wish for, I do not know what it would be like, but it would not be the same.
"He did not wish for me to leave, and I did. It will never be as it was." That is the truth, as unfortunate or tragic as it is. Mizu is who she is. Master Eiji is who he is. She could never be the apprentice he wanted. She isn't. She's always dedicated herself to more than making swords. To revenge. That is her art. Swordfather does everything to make good swords. Mizu made good swords to enact her revenge.
"And that means it will not be as good as it once was?" he asks, the question sincere in its asking.
Vergil understands perhaps better than most how one can irrevocably change things with their decisions. He knows that no matter what he does now with Dante, they cannot go back to what they were as children. Too much has happened and been said for them to ever go back to that. But that does not inherently mean there is nothing worth salvaging, nor does it mean what they might build with one another cannot be just as good as what was. Or perhaps even better. But Vergil's hold on that small hope of being able to still build something out of what has become of his relationship with his brother comes from his desire and drive to do as much. With as much as Mizu has denied herself though, it would not surprise him to learn she has never considered this question in the first place, or she has a less charitable answer for it.
The question shifts, and Mizu frowns. It was good, yes, and despite how it ended when she left, the pain couldn't poison her memories of all those years. That time went deeper and survived in ways the period of her marriage could not. It remains inaccessible, something that will not return even if she does. So Vergil asks about that potential future, that event that hasn't happened and cannot yet happen until an unknown point in the future.
How can she judge what it will be like, when neither she nor swordfather are yet the people who would be in it? Mizu does not know how the rest of her revenge will change her, nor how Master Eiji will change, at least in his opinion of her, during that time. Mizu cannot even be sure she would make the attempt in the first place, that she will wish to do that.
"Could you predict what it would be like to reunite with Dante after you achieved your dream for power?" Mizu asks. "Imagining what it might be like with swordfather is as impossible for me as it would be for you after you refused Dante's hand decades ago."
"Could it be as good? Perhaps. It could also be impossible. That, the more likely." Mizu glances down. "He may not see me as a monster for how I was born, but he could still determine the demon's taken all the chairs for what I've done. What I'll do."
Before she even speaks, the frown that forms on her face there in the dark tells Vergil all he needs to know about the answer that is to come. They have been down this road with one another far too many times for Vergil not to recognize it. At some point during these sorts of conversations, Vergil can always feel her slip from his grasp. As of late, the wall that takes its place between them, shutting out whatever sense or questions Vergil might speak to her has not been quite so tall or thick. He has found ways around or through it when necessary, and he's learned to simply rest beside it when it's not. But still it makes its appearance all the same.
Vergil's jaw tenses slightly at the mention of Dante and Vergil's refusal to take his hand, to do anything other than pursuing power. It is not an unfair comparison, but with a recent conversation with his brother still so fresh on his mindβDante's initial silence still so deafening that it leaves his subsequent promise little more than a whisperβthe comparison settles a bit more poorly than it otherwise would for Vergil. Part of him feels like biting back that he's more than aware of the difficulty in predicting what it would be to reunite with his brother. He faced that uncertainty once as V, disguising any aspect of his true identity out of a fear that Dante would refuse to help him. He faces it now each day with Dante here in Folkmore. But he holds his tongue because it is not her he is answering if he does. He listens instead, trying to push aside the distraction of his brother.
The rest of her answer leads him to sigh. Mizu gives a small chance that the worst may not come to pass. She tries to couch the worst outcome in a probability. But she still speaks with unearned certainty, and damns the alternatives with insignificant chance.
"So long as you recognize, could is not the same as will. No matter the probability you assign to it. He still has a choice and will of his own, just as you do."
And as she said, she cannot truly predict what Master Eiji will do.
No doubt Vergil's answer it not the same as hers. No doubt he sees foolishness in her words. The sigh speaks of that as surely as any words. Mizu's aware that they do not see eye to eye on everything in her life, and at times it seems on swordfather most of all. It's the only relationship Vergil has witnessed anything directly, lived it as she lived the fight with Dante she referenced. So he may feel more entitled to his own opinions about it, and Mizu does not begrudge him that. Yet he saw but a single swing in all a sword can do and does. A blade that may break or perhaps already is broken.
Mizu nods her head slightly in recognition of what Vergil says. They each have choices, the two of them. Mizu is the one who comes and leaves, while Master Eiji stays where he is. The first choice is hers. Once there, they each do as they will. Stubborn, the both of them. She lets that future, that hazy unpredictable future rest.
"I told him I'd come back after I killed Fowler," Mizu shares, "if I survived. Let him decide whether or not I was worthy of steel by his hand." She pauses and traces the kanji for fire on Vergil's back. "He can decide for himself what to make of what I did to Edo."
If he cannot accept her for doing that, if that's enough to turn her away, there will be no reason to go back after killing Routley and Skeffington. No need to ponder that distant future. They must get through the immediate aftermath before parting for a greater time, whether it be as great as the years before or less. The voyage around the world alone will take a good amount of time. If everyone in Japan sees her as a monster, who is to say she will even return? Mizu does not care to think about it, about anything after her revenge. It's a distraction all the more likely to make it never become a concern in the first place.
Vergil knows better than to push too hard on a point with Mizu. It only causes her own stubbornness to flare if he does, and the point ultimately becomes lost in the disagreement of perspective. She has been willing enough to hear him out. While it is obvious her pessimism still reigns supreme when it comes to predicting outcomes, her belief in the history of people who were meant to love her serving as basis for such predictions, she at least acknowledges that Master Eiji will make his own decision based upon his own judgment. Not her history or her assumptions, but as he knows her. It is more consideration than Vergil believes Mizu would naturally give to it, in any case, as she can more easily reflect that Master Eiji knows her to her core and that is his metric. Not what he wants her to be, but who he knows her to be.
"He will," he says, letting the matter rest by not speaking of which way her swordfather's decision will fall. Mizu knows what he thinks the outcome will be. She knows what he believes it will be. And they both know that the answer will not reveal itself until the time for it has arrived. There's little sense on either of them continuing to dwell upon it any further. Vergil brings a hand down to one of Mizu's legs, disentangling it to hook it loosely around his hip as he somewhat lazily rolls Mizu over onto her back. His remaining hand at her back slips out from beneath her to support some of his weight on an elbow beside her as he leans down to kiss her. Despite their current positioning, the kisses he places to her lips are chaste and simpler expressions of his affection for her. He teases her lightly by saying, "Might we at the very least agree that you have made marked improvement in your choice for lovers?"
Which really is less about Vergil's ego as it sounds, and more subtle a reminder that her bad memories of the man before Vergil does not determine what happens between the two of them any more than her mother's decisions determine Master Eiji's decisions. Vergil is not her late husband, and he would not have even for a moment considered the decisions he made. Even if there was something he found himself in disagreement with or his pride was bruised, he could never find it within himself to lash out at her, nor abandon her when she might need him. Not with how he feels for Mizu.
The irony of the matter is that neither of them will be in a position to prove their claim until Mizu leaves and their ways part. Should Mizu prove right, and she does not wish to, there will be no one to which she can point it out. Should Vergil prove right, Mizu will not be able to inform him or perhaps, as is fitting, let him bonk her on the head with the pair of tongs he bought her. Vergil draws her attention back to her body and keeps her thoughts inhabiting it with a simple touch. No need to think of the future, even one so short after her return, when they have that moment and each other. No reason to think of the fact they will part.
Mizu bites her lip for a moment before laughing. He's known of Mikio's existence for all of a single morning, and he turns all the comparisons she's made, all her quiet thoughts, into a teasing remark aloud. Spoken of. Not something haunting her thoughts. They may yet be banished.
"You're more than a month late to that realization," Mizu replies. She runs one hand into his hair and enjoys brushing it with her fingers. It's yet one more place it's easy to draw differences between them, by far a less important one, but it's grounding to touch Vergil and even with her eyes closed be unable to mistake the two. "I've known that since the first day by the pool. Not only because you kissed me when I pinned you down, but because you opened yourself up to me, you listen and do not think any worse of me, you already knew me at my most foolish... you care for me, not some idea of me, and you will still care for me when I defeat you."
Mizu knows everything she said, it's obvious, something Vergil knows and surely, with this conversation at least, knows she knows as well, yet it feels far more fragile to say it aloud. She teases back, "I wouldn't delay my mornings for you otherwise."
Vergil's eyes close briefly as she runs her fingers through his hair, savoring the sensation and focusing on her words a little more closely. Although with such close attention to what she's saying, Vergil's eyes open again not long after, searching hers in the dark. It feels like so many times now, he's tried to say what he feels for her, and so many times he's missed the mark. Arguably, he still is when she describes Vergil's feelings as caring for her rather than what he knows them to be. But he can't think of it that way in hearing her speak of it. It's the first she's ever acknowledged aloud anything about how Vergil feels so directly and with no qualifiers. An indescribable warmth fills his chest and spreads throughout him even as she teases him.
"I already told you earlier it isn't morning yet," he says with a smile, gently bumping noses with her and nuzzling her in his affection. "So, perhaps you might consider delaying morning a little longer with me."
Vergil kisses Mizu again sweetly, bringing more of his weight to rest comfortably upon her in subtle proposal of how the morning might yet be delayed further.
Mizu relaxes into an amused smile as Vergil yet again continues his claim that it is not morning. No clock, save her relic, is in the room, somewhere on the far side of the sheet and blankets he's covered them with. It wouldn't be easily seen anyway, for it is as dark as night outside. None of that matters because the time is not the point. When morning comes, when they treat it as the start of day, their time together will end, and though it will come again, Mizu is loathe to give it up.
Stubborn and narrowly focused on her goals as she is, Mizu melts into the kiss and the continued desire to spend more time with her. No excuses about time saved in traveling instantaneously, it's what she wants. Her leg tightens around Vergil, as though he's the one that might get up and leave, and Mizu kisses Vergil repeatedly.
"Perhaps a little while," Mizu says against his lips, "until you've finished."
Half a joke, but Mizu lacks the urgency to rush anything. It's enough to explore him beneath her hands yet again and to pull his head down the small distance to kiss him. This moment is hers, and that cannot be taken away from her.
in which dante seeks ~advice~ from his big brother
( Neroβs out, Vergilβs not. This makes for the opportune moment to seek out his brother and talk to him about something thatβs been on his mind. Of course, being the topic that it is, he needs to find a way to casually bring this up to his brother without raising any suspicions and so, he makes sure to take a couple things along with him as he goes throughout the house looking for him.
When he finds Vergil, he takes a second β mulls over whether or not he wants to actually do this or just chicken out and get something to drink. In the end, he sucks it up and saunters his way all casually over, playing with a yo-yo as he does. When heβs close enough to, he walks the dog with it towards Vergil, lazy smile there on his face. )
Making pizza sauce, what does it appear I'm doing? [Vergil says, frowning down at the toy approaching him from the floor.]
[This would normally be understandably interpreted as a purely sarcastic response coming from Vergil given his growing contempt for the meal, but it is what he's actually doing. It just also is entirely understandable if that's not what it looks like he's doing from Dante's perspective considering he's in the process of blanching the tomatoes so they can be peeled and crushed. Vergil glances up briefly at Dante before turning his attention back to his tomatoes as he begins scooping a few of them out and placing them into a bowl of ice water.]
Did you need something? Or are you just bored?
[Because Vergil can and will put Dante to work if it's the latter. He's not going to have Dante underfoot in the kitchen and not contribute to this in some capacity.]
( Well thereβs something you donβt see everyday. So much to the point that it has him pull up the yo-yo from the ground to smack into the palm of his hand, chuckle there on his lips. )
Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?
( Teasing, he goes about playing with his yo-yo again as he twists around some, enough to be able to drop himself back into the counter and lean against comfortably out of Vergilβs way there. For a long moment, it seems as though he is, in fact, bored and had merely been searching his brother out as he often did when he was little as a means to entertain himself in whatever ways he could. But thatβs not entirely the case here and the silence that comes from him is one thatβs more heavy with hesitation than boredom from his brotherβs lack of doing anything of interest to him.
Again, he walks the dog before he snaps it back up to his palm and looks over for a moment at the progress Vergil has made before he lets go of a breath softly. )
Soβ¦ Neroβs momβ¦ ( He stares down, playing with his yo-yo. ) β¦she knew who you were, I take it.
[He wrinkles his nose at Dante's teasing, but he doesn't protest it beyond that. It's not all that unfair with how much he complains about the pizza and often chooses to eat a separate meal when Nero and Dante split a pie. Plus, he's kept his research into what goes into making a pizza to himself. Vergil figures he's earned a little bit if teasing. As long as Dante appreciates the effort even if not the final product, however, Vergil is fine with a some teasing for it.]
[In their silence, he finishes fishing out all the tomatoes from the pot before sparing another glance at Dante. Frowning slightly, he turns the burner off and sets the last tomato into the ice bath, but he doesn't make any demands of Dante to help him as a means of breaking the silence. Despite how casually Dante is leaning against the counter, if he was just bored, he would be chattering away about something and the silence wouldn't be there. But something is on his mind, and he's clearly trying to think of how to say it. It's rare thing, Vergil reflects upon silently. Between the two of them, Dante was gifted with the silver tongue. He always seemed to know what to say even when he wasn't really saying anything at all. Silences to think of what to say were far more Vergil's modus operandi. So, Vergil allows him the space to formulate whatever it is in the assumption whatever Dante wants to say must be something important. Why else all this potential concern for tact?]
[When Dante does eventually ask his question, Vergil pauses in getting another bowl from one of the bottom cabinets. So. It would seem Nero hasn't told Dante anything Vergil told him. Or, well, none of the details at least. Otherwise, he would already possess that answer. Vergil sets the bowl on the counter and closes the cabinet, clearly uncertain of where this line of conversation might be going.]
Yes, Beatrice knew, [he says, supplying her name for Dante. He isn't exactly keen on talking about her to any great length with Dante. Not directly, not yet. But when Nero asked for her name, it struck Vergil then and there that he hadn't said her name in decades. And knowing the sort of fate that most likely befell her... Well, it is a little thing to keep her memory alive to at least not shy from saying her name. Even if it still feels a bit...strange in its own way to say it now with the inevitable feelings of unresolved matters and grief and shame that now more presently accompany the memory of her. But Vergil is able to set them aside at least. So, there is no missing beat as he provides a slightly more detailed answer.] I told her once I believed she could be trusted with the truth.
[Vergil didn't typically hide who he was after their mother's death, but while investigating the Order? Discretion was warranted to avoid whatever nonsense or trouble might follow at being a son of the Savior.]
( Again he takes his time β mulls over the answer given to him from his brother while watching the way he drops and catches the yo-yo over and over again. That silence falls between them again, a fleeting glance thrown to his brother there beside him while he worries his bottom lip. Itβs the little things β the prolonged silence and the way he fidgets there as a means to keep himself doing something as he would when being a little chatterbox about this and that that shows thereβs something there heβs almost hesitant or unsure about approaching.
He gives it another second β nods his head to show heβs listening and gets it and then twists some to face his brother, though he still looks down to the yo-yo he plays with. )
Did she⦠ever see you as a demon? You know, when we look like that and all.
[Again, Vergil remains patient as Dante mulls things over in his silence. Dante busies himself with his toy, and Vergil keeps himself occupied with pulling out one of the cutting boards and a knife. He takes one of the tomatoes from the ice water and shakes it off before beginning to peel and core it.]
[Once again, Dante's question is striking albeit not for the exact same reason as before wherein it had been obvious Nero hadn't shared details of his origins with his uncle. Rather instead, the question seems more specific than his opening question while offering no further illumination on where exactly this conversation is going.]
Yes... [he says, warily. Rather than provide any further context based on assumptions of particularly what Dante might be getting after, Vergil leaves it there. He deems it better to let Dante ask his questions than try to divine and intuit his real intentions.]
( Another few flicks of the yo-yo, he throws another glance over to his brother out of the corner of his eye. He wonders what he's thinking β just how wary or even confused he is with this conversation and where it may or may not be going. They talk, sure. Not always like this though and not really ever about someone like Nero's mother who not even he himself knows really anything about; he'd tried to find out what he could after clocking who Nero was to him, but. It was always a dead end β a cold trail to follow.
Pulling the yo-yo up to smack in the palm of his hand as he catches it, he licks over his lips and chances a glance up to his brother for a second, gaze wandering around the kitchen after. )
Did you and her ever... you know... when you were like that?
[Vergil abruptly stops what he's doing, head snapping in Dante's direction at the question. Whatever possibilities there might have been for Dante's questions, none of them even came close to that question in particular. For a moment, all Vergil does is gape at his brother, mouth moving uselessly as he doesn't even form a sound to properly sputter.]
That, [he manages eventually, pointing a finger at Dante,] is none of your business.
[Although with how noticably red Vergil is... Well. Dante can reach his own conclusions if Vergil is merely scandalized by the thought alone, the discussion of his sex life suddenly has him easily embarrassed, or if he's inadvertently provided affirmation. Vergil turns back to his tomatoes shaking his head.]
Why would you ask me something like that in the first place? [He holds a hand up after placing a tomato in the other bowl.] And don't give me some nonsense about concern for my sex life right now. Actually tell me why you're asking.
[Despite the demand for an explanation, Vergil isn't angry so much as clearly flustered. Which was likely always to be the kneejerk response to that question. Vergil remains a private individual, and especially so when it comes to more intimate matters of his relationships.]
( It's enough of an answer for him, one that gets him to chuckle softly to himself as he hangs his head some, strands of white and gray falling in front of his face. Letting the yo-yo drop from his hand, he lifts his head up then, smile lazy there on his lips. )
Oh, brother.
( Said both fondly and playfully as he twirls the yo-yo around some before he starts swinging it back and forth, seemingly focused on it more than he is his brother and his cherry red tomato face. Once again, there's silence that comes from the youngest son of Sparda. No teasing, no jokes, no riffs about how wild his big brother seemingly was in his youth. Just... silence. One that he doesn't let stretch for too long, but. When he finally lets it come to an end, the lazy smile that had been there on his face is replaced with a more pensive expression β almost a little too somber or unnatural for someone like Dante to wear. )
You weren't ever worried? ( He still doesn't look up. ) About hurting her like that? You know. By accident.
[When no explanation comes for his reasons in asking him something like that, Vergil huffs to himself quietly. He doesn't know what he realistically expected. Dante isn't one for straight answers ever, and it could just as well be on a whim that he's asking or saying any of this now. Vergil just lets it all be in the ensuing silence, but stops his work again to look up at the ceiling when Dante asks his follow-up question for just a brief moment. It's a small wonder the tomato in his hand doesn't end up prematurely crushed.]
[But he looks to his brother then and sees that oddly serious expression that almost makes Dante difficult to recognize. Whatever protests Vergil had ready to fire off about how he never said he did anything like that with her, and didn't he also say it was none of Dante's business all die before they can begin to leave his mouth. Oh, Vergil still frowns in obvious discomfort and displeasure with the topic of conversation. That much does not change. But instead of potentially snapping at him amid his renewed fluster, Vergil simply looks back at the tomatoes.]
What sort of stupid question is that? [he huffs instead.] Of course I was worried I might hurt her. It wasn't my idea in the first place, and control under other circumstances didn't guarantee I had control then in the middle of...that.
[He glances at Dante ever so briefly before admitting,]
To whatever degree you may accuse me of having been callous back then, you would likely be correct. But I never was with her.
[She meant something to Vergil. Even if he tried to pretend it wasn't the case at the time and eventually ran from it when he could no longer deny it, she wasn't just some girl he was sleeping with while he was investigating the Order and trying to find more information on Sparda's power.]
But she trusted me, [he says, his hands stilling again as he privately recognizes she trusted him far more than she likely should have in the end considering he didn't have the courage and strength to stay.] And I suppose I trusted her as well. So, I agreed to it at least once.
( Control is definitely a concern to be had when it comes to them and their demonic side. With Vergil, it always seemed to come more easier β at least in Dante's eyes. The first to tap into that power and beyond β to find ways to coexist with his demon rather than run from it or merely use it as a tool when needed. He's obviously better at it himself now, but. Nothing like his brother and, if he's honest, he doesn't really think he ever will be.
Truth be told, he finds himself gently surprised that Vergil is rather forthcoming with a reply and it's enough to get him to peek up at his brother for just a moment before he's looking back down to his yo-yo that sadly and slowly spins there near his feet, dangling. It's not so much that he's nosy about his brother's business with Nero's mother β ok maybe a little because what the hell still β but it's more their being what they are and how they can be where his curiosity stems from, especially when it concerns others who are very much human and not like them.
So as he twists away from his brother to let his lower back sink into the edge of the counter there which he leans against again, it's with a quiet sigh there on his lips and a slow reeling in of his yo-yo with his fingers, looking downwards. )
Would kind of be a mood killer to end up losing control in the middle of that, yeah. Or getting carried away.
[Vergil gives a mildly scrutinizing look to his brother, still uncertain about why the sudden curiosity in the subject.]
[In general, the two of them continue avoiding talk of their demonic heritage as much as they can. Their opposition may not be as diametric as it once was what with Vergil allowing for his own humanity and Dante not abstaining from obtaining power when the situation calls for it, but it still feels a fraught topic. Dante likely anticipated (or perhaps still anticipates) a lecture from Vergil even if, truth be told, Vergil is disinterested in the argument. For one, he isn't as invested in gaining more power after everything. For another, he just wants his brother back. There is no point nor need to driving such a wedge between them by belaboring a point that no longer needs to be made.]
[Dante also knows it's not really Vergil's tendency to discuss much when it comes to his private affairs both literal and figurative. Vergil hasn't said much on the matter of Nero's mother, and even now he remains reticent on details about her and leaves it to implication. There was likely more chance that Vergil would say nothing on the matter than there was he would provide a response, and Dante had to have known that. Hell, if he hadn't looked actually serious about the topic, Dante absolutely would have been on the receiving end of a curt, likely unkind response to his questions.]
[So, why the curiosity? Why chance a lecture or mean remark for this information?]
[...Is there someone Dante has coupled with?]
[It's not likely that he's simply curious about Vergil's sex life. Much like Vergil would much rather never know details about Dante's sex life, he's certain the same is true in reverse. So, it must be some sort of self-interest driving the questions, and that would imply there is someone Dante has a vested interest in sharing some form of intimacy with that he would be willing to trudge through whatever awkwardness or uncomfortable information might come about in asking Vergil. It isn't as though there's a wealth of options for Dante to ask either considering the uniqueness of their existence even within their own world, never mind in Folkmore. Vergil frowns at the tomato skin he sets aside as that doesn't seem to satisfy as the reason for asking enough.]
[It's true that he doesn't know much about Dante's life back home beyond what he observed during his very brief glimpse into it as V, but... The only real viable option he can think of off the top of his head for a partner that Dante would likely demonstrate some interest in isn't here. Not to Vergil's knowledge, anyway. Although he's quite certain if Lady were here, he would know one way or another about her presence. Most likely in his refrigerator emptying all the more quickly if Dante (or Nero) somehow failed to tell him. But that doesn't explain it either. Why wouldn't he just talk with Lady about it? They have not just kept in touch after all these years, but she's clearly remained close to him. And she likely knows more about the ins and outs of Dante than most would be privy to just from her proximity to Temen-ni-gru and everything that transpired all those years ago. Plus, she may be human, but she's also stayed involved in the demon hunting business above and beyond what another human might be able to keep up with. All of that should account for something, and some kind of trust between the two of them that Dante could freely express something like this to her directly. And frankly, even if it's not Lady and there is someone else, surely, there should be enough built between Dante and this other person by now that they could talk about this.]
[So, why come to his otherwise estranged brother for potential guidance about intimacy with someone that isn't here regardless of whether it is Lady or not?]
[But beyond the look, Vergil ultimately ends up saying nothing to Dante. His focus remains on his current culinary efforts rather than asking a question he knows he won't get an answer for regardless of how many inventive ways he finds to ask it. So, he leaves it be and allows for Dante to determine if his questions have been answered sufficiently.]
( The silence from his brother is a little on the unsettling side if only because of his worry he might end up getting told off in one way or another. They've never quite had a conversation like this before β haven't had many to begin with that were more on the neutral end of things, so. He can understand the suspicion β the confusion his brother might be feeling with all of this.
Still, Vergil is his big brother and with no one else to turn to about this, it's why he's here. Regardless of how awkward or uncomfortable it might be. Granted, it's not as if he's going into extreme details here nor does he want them from Vergil, but. A conversation still steeped in awkwardness to some extent.
With the yo-yo pulled up into his palm, he looks over to Vergil then, expression a little more sympathetic. )
Trust, huh? ( Huff on his lips, he shakes his head, bringing his yo-yo up to look at it, turning it around back and forth between his fingers. ) Guess that's something to consider.
I would hope that would be a consideration regardless, [Vergil says with a slightly raised eyebrow as he glances over at Dante. Even with as questionable as Vergil's judgment could likely be called when it comes to relationships with others, even he knows trust is a necessary piece of the foundation for anything to last.]
Yeah, but... ( Pushing away from the counter, he swings his arms at his side β slowly walks in a circle there in the kitchen. ) ...maybe it's more you don't trust yourself as much as you do them. You know?
[Vergil glances at Dante as he begins his slow circle, but otherwise remains focused on finishing up with the tomatoes.]
That rarely is a concern of mine. [It isn't a brag. He's far too matter-of-fact in the statement for it to be a reflection of Vergil's long-standing superiority complex over Dante. For all the ways in which Vergil has historically possessed blindspots when it comes to his decisions that could likely call into question the validity of his insight, he's never been one to doubt himself.] If I did not possess any trust in myself whatsoever, I would not have agreed to it.
( That silence settles over him again and, for a moment, the youngest son of Sparda almost seems deflated. Not necessarily with what it is Vergil says, but. More about what it means for him. Not wanting to let himself settle there in that feeling though, he sighs as he approaches his brother. )
Well. Then I guess I wonβt agree to it.
( Clap of his hand on his brotherβs shoulder, he smiles softly while giving a nod. )
[Vergil's eyebrows draw together in visible confusion as Dante thanks him and claps him on the shoulder, feeling distinctly like he's missed a step within this conversation somewhere along the way and having no reasonable idea for how to find it again. Especially not when Dante appears to be so neatly tying it up. He studies Dante's face for a moment as if there answer might manifest right there on his forehead, but it, of course, does not. Was Dante looking for advice this entire time? Vergil wasn't even aware that was...]
[He sighs, an impatient noise as he shakes his head in mild frustration. If there is one thing Vergil doesn't particularly like, it's feeling a step or two behind. But Dante isn't liable to do him any favors in helping him catch up. If anything, he'll only wind up more frustrated when Dante inevitably abandons this more serious tone for something else, something a little more familiar.]
[He slides the bowl of tomatoes a little further down the counter from where he has it placed.]
...If you're going to be over here, make yourself useful and crush these.
( Hand dropping away from his brotherβs shoulder, he stares to him for a long moment β catches the way brows knit and his expression shifts ever so gently. He recalls the moment back at Amrita Academy when his dear big brother had decided to make him privy to his whatever with Mizu and how he didnβt really need to tell him that, especially when it wasnβt the topic of conversation at the time. He really didnβt have to. But, he also knows his brother and some things are simply better left unsaid.
Dropping his gaze down in thought for a moment, he turns then to press his back against Vergilβs back and leans against him, dropping the yo-yo down. )
But you do it so much better than me.
( An almost typical response from a younger sibling looking to get himself out of work. )
[Vergil huffs an agitated sigh as Dante quite literally swerves out of the way of any potential work. He drags the bowl back over in front of himself instead of trying to hassle or physically corral Dante into doing the work. With his back pressed against Vergil's, Dante will know the exact moment Vergil's hand is in the bowl and crushing up the tomatoes and likely be able to envision the exact face he's making as there's a little shudder. The texture and temperature of the tomatoes in his hand is beyond unpleasant, but in all his research, it was said repeatedly that hand-crushed provides the best texture for the sauce.]
[...Dante and Nero just had better really like this sauce to make it worth it.]
[It's after a moment or two of silence between them that Vergil gently taps the back of their heads together.]
Have you thought of learning here?
[He knows the question is a loaded one. The last time Vergil brought it up was when they were still in Amrita, and it only led to an argument that left both brothers parting in anger. But he tries to ask it in a gentler manner than before. Less I told you so and superior older brother, and more... Well, concern isn't really the right word for it. But he's considering the degree of intimacy and trust involved with coupling the act with that form, and that would mean it's important. Especially if he's pushing through the inherent awkwardness of talking about it with his older brother first. So, it's more Vergil recognizes its importance and Dante's vulnerability in bringing any of this up in the first place, and he tries to be gentler in his approach this time.]
There are plenty of places in Folkmore where there's nothing around if you're concerned about collateral damage. The most you would hurt in some parts of Wintermute are trees, and Cruel Summer would only have the concern of beasts that are liable to attack you first regardless. [He glances over his shoulder.] I wouldn't let you do anything you'd regret later, Dante. I'd stop you before you lost control.
( Part of him wonders what it might have been like... for the two of them to grow up side by side regardless of the circumstance. Be it at home with their mother still alive, or just the two of them after that traumatic day and they hadn't been separated from each other. What it would have been like for them to have each other to learn from and with when it came to their father's blood in their veins. Maybe he'd been a lot better at it β maybe he'd have tapped into it all much sooner with Vergil there at his side. Things he'll never know what with his having to have figure it all out on his own over the years. Things he still, to this day, finds he figures out here and there.
Back still pressed to his brother's, he drops the yo-yo down once again and lets it spin there for as long as he can, staring to it in silence. Somber. Snapping the yo-yo back up, he forces a smile and knocks his head back against his brother's playfully. )
You know who needs to learn some of that? Your kid.
( A truth and something he's noticed. )
He's sort of there. Can't really keep the control for very long, but I think he can do it. Just needs a little more practice and to not think so much about it. Also think his old man would be the best to learn from as far as all that goes. Real father-son bonding moment, don't you think? You're welcome for that idea.
( Chuckle soft, he rolls the yo-yo over between his palms. )
I'm good though. Like I said, was just a dumb thought.
[Vergil hums his light agreement as he continues crushing the tomatoes in the bowl, but he hesitates to say more right away. Dante's response at first doesn't feel like an actual answer considering the focus on Nero instead. But deflection from Dante is usually the first bit of warning to leave something alone, and by the time he finishes talking, he's said no. It's just a no that sits with a little less certainty for Vergil given the discussion of Nero and especially given the dismissal of it being unimportant in the end. Nothing about how Dante has been approaching this has felt like a dumb thought. He frowns down at the increasing mush that hasn't yet taken the form of a sauce in the bowl as though it is withholding the answer of whether or not to push the question.]
Well, if you change your mind...
[He waves vaguely with his free, non-tomato-y hand before returning it to keeping the bowl stable.]
[Vergil chooses to leave it alone in the end. Even if Dante is pretending it isn't all that important and attempts to use Nero as a distraction, the answer is still no to some degree or another.]
[Left wrapped on Vergil's bed. Inside is a thick leather-bound book entitled, A Treasury of Romantic Poets. It contains a compilation of poems from the period, some of which Vergil no doubt knows and already owns, but the bookseller recommended this when Nero said he was shopping for someone who "like, really loves William Blake."
There's a good-sized envelope tucked in the pages, very deliberately on the page printed with Blake's "The Little Boy Found." Inside the envelope is a stack of photographs of Nero, at various ages from when he was a child.
One depicts a round-cheeked, serious-looking infant with shock white hair, standing up with assistance from a smiling nun holding his hands.
Another shows a class picture from the Order school. Among the students dressed in their little uniforms and smiling obediently, Nero is in the front row sticking his tongue out.
There's another formal photograph of Nero upon his induction to the Holy Knights. He's 13, dressed in the white formal uniform, standing proudly alongside a stern-looking bearded captain and other inductees, all of whom are visibly older than Nero.
In another he's a bit older, wearing a new non-standard uniform and a pair of headphones. It was taken clandestinely as he fell asleep in a church service, feet propped up on a pew and one arm in a sling.
He isn't serious or bored-looking in every picture, though. One shows Nero, around age 8, hanging upside down on a swingset. A little girl with auburn-red hair is swinging, and they're both laughing. Another from around the same time shows Nero at the beach, absolutely covered in mud and sand, grinning and rushing the photographer with messy hands.]
( On whatever day this may be, when Vergil enters his room for the evening, he'll find the Sparda family portrait leaning up against the wall, framed. There's no note, no wrapping done of it, and no bow tacked onto it. It's just there. Waiting for him. For whenever he may see it. )
[He should probably call it good for the day. Sweat trickles down his brow, his chest, the small of his back under his shirt. Bruises and abrasions throb on his elbows, his side, under the knees of his jeans from hitting the ground again and again. He imagines if Vergil knew he was getting that banged up, he'd want to call it, but Nero's not given a single indication that he's gotten hurt. Except for the way it's taking him a little longer to stumble back to his feet after each failed round. But he can chalk that up to being tired, which is obvious by the heavy breathing and clear exertion in his movements.
Mostly, he should call it because he can feel the last vestiges of his temper starting to fray with frustration. He can still hear Credo in the back of his head. Do not fight with such anger. You're clumsy. You're unfocused. But Nero absolutely cannot fathom letting it go. Not when he's put on such a poor performance and hardly landed a dozen real, substantial blows on his father in all their practicing. This is not going to be how he gives up for the day.
Besides, he can feel his power building again. His Devil Trigger is ready-- even if he's looking a little clumsy as he slings Red Queen over his shoulder and gets into stance again.]
Don't look at me like that. [However he's being looked at.] I can still fight.
[By the time Nero intervened with Dante and Vergil atop the Qliphoth, both twins had exerted much of their energy into their own battle with one another. Vergil also was not interested in a true fight against his son, not one where there was the chance Nero could be significantly injured. Thus, Vergil irrefutably lost that fight against him that day. And while Vergil would not say that those factors somehow undermine that victory for Nero, he has begun to wonder if perhaps it has set unreasonable expectations.]
[Nero should be just as proud of what he's managed today as he is over his victory atop the Qliphoth. Perhaps even prouder. But Vergil senses that rather than taking pleasure in finding a way through Vergil's guard or correctly reading his movements to avoid a blow, Nero instead only buries himself in frustration when his next strike doesn't land or it ends up that it was a feint and he finds himself quickly facedown again.]
[Vergil sheathes Yamato as it strikes him just how much this is like looking into a mirror. Nero fixates on his perceived inadequacies to the detriment of everything else, and his temper only increasing as a consequence in frustration with himself because of what he believes he should be capable of versus his actual performance. Historically and even now, Vergil is much the same way albeit his frustrations these days do not stem from shortcomings he identifies in battle.]
This isn't a real fight, Nero. [In contrast to Nero, Vergil does not adopt a stance again. He stands there opposite his son, trying to convince him that this has been enough for today rather than encouraging him to push forward instead.] There is no need to push yourself to exhaustion today.
[He shakes his head slightly.]
You've done well, but it will defeat the purpose of this to press on any further.
[Yeah, there it is. The rational thing to do would be to take him up on it and bow out. There are zero stakes to backing down, and refusing isn't really proving anything. Too bad every impulse inside him is screaming that he can't stop now. He's better than this. He's not going to look this pathetic in front of Vergil. If he can land just one more hit, then maybe he won't feel like such a futile little brat, flailing his sword while his father easily holds him at bay with a hand on his head.
Besides, he's already exhausted, so what's a little more?]
You giving up already? [The quip lands a bit hollow, given Nero looks like a gentle push could knock him over at this point.] I'm not done. I'm better than this.
[He revs Red Queen over his shoulder, lighting the engine with flames.]
[Vergil sighs quietly as Nero revs Red Queen back into life. He knows Nero is stubborn and rarely one to let something go, but this is certainly a more extreme demonstration of that trait than what he's used to seeing from him. Vergil has a choice to make: he can either indulge Nero or he can refuse. Indulging him would not end well, Vergil believes. Most likely, he will lose another round and only grow all the more frustrated and angry with his failures. Refusing him may result in Nero making the choice regardless of what Vergil says, or lend more to his growing temper.]
[No real option feels like the right one inherently, but Vergil still believes it to be better that Nero does not push himself now.]
Your form is becoming sloppier than it was when we began because you are beginning to overexert yourself. [Vergil is beginning to realize he perhaps should have put a stop to this a few rounds prior. Perhaps it would not be so difficult as it appears to be now.] There is no shame in recognizing a limit, Nero. Sloppy form grows to become habit to become muscle memory, and we both know what the outcomes are if you bring that into true battles.
[It becomes much harder to train that out of oneself than to accept the limit exists where it does.]
You will not do better today, but you will tomorrow if you exercise wisdom now and rest.
[He is tired. He is sloppy. Of course he can't top Vergil. Of course he's barely holding his own. He should just give up and quit before he embarrasses himself even worse. Before he gets this sloppy in every fight because of muscle memory, like his dad says. What if he sucked this much in every fight? If this is the best he can do maybe he just sucks in general? But seriously, there's nothing at stake here, except an outsized chunk of his pride that suggests there are, uh, some issues being tied up with what's supposed to be a basic spar. Who cares?
Nero does. A hell of a fucking lot.
His fingers shake on the grip of his sword as his wings appear, and a wave of demonic energy simmers around him, not quite firing yet but threatening to.]
[Nero's temper flares all the more and with it his demonic energy, his wings manifesting in a burst. Vergil's brow furrows in response, but still he remains as he has been. Still and firm in his refusal to engage Nero any further in this. Especially now as he borders on the edge of an outright tantrum.]
Nero, enough.
[There is nothing to prove. There are no demons to be fought. He's gearing up to fight purely on emotion alone rather than thought or technique. It serves only to his detriment, and he has to realize that. There has to be some part of him that does.]
[But Vergil is through appealing to it. His tone is more warning than advisement at this point, which is why he says nothing further. Just those two words alone.]
[His eyes widen, then narrow again, and he bites back a growl. That tone very nearly tips him off. Something about it brings him right back to the Qliphoth. When he demanded to be taken seriously, was met with--what he read as-- patronizing skepticism, and proceeded to kick Vergil's ass for it. That all feels a million years away now. Even though the stakes here are non-existent, it doesn't feel that way as he finds himself drowning in disgust and disappointment with himself.
He teeters forward, then back again. Then further back as the futility sinks in. Finally, he swings Red Queen over his shoulder. The gout of flame that bursts from the engines makes it look much more dramatic when he slams it crookedly into the dirt and leaves it sticking there.]
Fuck!!
[He kicks the dirt almost as hard as he turns around, fists clenched, stomping furiously a few paces away as he tries to get a handle on his flaring temper.]
[What relief Vergil may feel that Nero finally appears to be backing down from continuing any further is sapped away by Nero's subsequent outburst. He's not disappointed by the display of anger, but rather concerned over it. While he does not know Nero's exact thoughts, he can take an educated guess at what they may be.]
[It's perhaps not particularly advisable to approach Nero right now. In fact, Vergil hesitates a moment before doing so, wondering if the best thing to do is interpret the steps away as his implicit request for space. But his concerns outweigh everything else, the ache he feels in his chest at seeing his child struggling in a way he had yet to witness until now leading him to walk past Red Queen in the dirt and through the additional paces. Vergil says his name again, much softer this time, before he reaches out to try and place a hand on his shoulder, attempting to pull him in for a tight embrace.]
[If he's rebuffed, so be it. Vergil thinks it far worse to just stand there passively observing Nero as he is now. He'll only try again one more time in that instance before giving up on it albeit remaining close by.]
[If there was a wall around, he'd punch it. Something to kick, he'd kick it. He's fuming and frustrated and for no real adequate reason he can put his finger on. You're acting like a fucking baby, he thinks, which is one more thing to be upset about. Add it to the pile. The worst thing about it is knowing that Vergil is watching him, probably bewildered at the very least-- if not actively disappointed. Check out his grown-ass son who can't hold his own, and can't handle his temper either.
There's movement at the corner of his eye, a hand on his shoulder, and he spins around defensively. Vergil moves in and out of sheer reflex he swats and stumbles back a step, and it's then with the second attempt that he realizes his father is trying to... hug him? This makes him freeze, torn between angry reflex and his implicit desire not to shun Vergil's clumsy attempts at affection.
So he ends up in Vergil's embrace the second time. Still outrageously pissed about basically nothing, and his fists remain clenched at his side rather than returning the gesture. But his weight slumps forward and his forehead thumps against Vergil's shoulder, unmistakable signs of surrender.
His shoulders tremble and he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back tears. It's fine. He's fine. Vergil can hold him tight as he likes. He just needs a minute.]
[With one hand still holding Yamato, Vergil merely keeps that arm tightly wrapped around Nero once he finally relents and allows for Vergil to hold him. His hold on Nero's opposite shoulder with his free hand does not last long. Nero rests against him, hiding his face in Vergil's shoulder, and Vergil cradles the back of his head. He's not bothered at the lack of reciprocation and Nero's hands remaining balled into tight fists at his side because Vergil remembers what it was like when he was small. When he would grow so frustrated and angry that all the thoughts inside his head would jumble themselves together until he couldn't explain why he was so angry in the first place, not even to himself. He just knew it was white hot anger and he hated every second of it until he found himself on the verge of tears. And that would just reignite his temper all over again because he felt it was stupid and childish and so far below what he should be that he couldn't speak and it was even more all of those horrible things that he was about to cry over it.]
[Vergil can't really say he's necessarily gotten better about it per se. It comes out a little differently now at forty-four than it did at five or eight, after all. But he knows the only way past it is through, and he knows now it's better when he's not riding the flood of emotion all by himself. Even if in some ways it feels awful not to deal with it on his own, it's ultimately better knowing someone is there on the other side of it.]
It's okay, [he says, quietly.]
[He does not urge Nero one way or another on how to handle it any more than he really attempts to rush him along. He lets Nero find his own way through, trusting that he knows it better than Vergil possibly could. Vergil's hand drops from Nero's head to between his shoulders, rubbing a few circles there as Nero shakes and trembles before stilling his hand again. Vergil keeps his own breath steady and even against Nero's more labored, agitated breathing.]
[Oh, thinks Nero. This is what it would be like. This is what it's like when his father holds him and tells him he's going to be okay. It's a wistful and longing feeling, and it's a good thing he's already on the verge of tears because that would have knocked him right over the edge otherwise.
He lingers there a minute, letting the rage and frustration and everything else rush over him like he's standing still in a rough surf. At a certain point it crests and finally starts to flow away, leaving embarrassment and shame in its wake.
It's a few minutes before Nero moves. It's to bring one of those balled fists forward in a gentle, frustrated thump against Vergil's leg.]
[It's easy to tell when the worst of it is over even before Nero finally moves again by the way his body finally releases tension just enough to speak to the absence of his temper. Vergil shakes his head slightly when Nero finally speaks.]
You are being too harsh in your judgment of yourself.
[Now and before. A statement of observation rather than a criticism of his behavior.]
He relaxes a little further, slumping a little harder on Vergil. The other fist mirrors the first, but the movement is more of a dull thump than a deliberate action this time.]
[Nero couldn't necessarily be faulted if he felt the question wasn't sincere. Most people probably would not ask and would make their safe assumptions about why Nero felt the whole affair has been, in his own words, stupid. But for better or worse, Vergil tries to err on the side of caution when it comes to assumptions pertaining to Nero as best he can.]
[Vergil's hand between Nero's shoulder blades moves back up to his head, running fingers through Nero's hair. He does not bother with asking what is so different about this that Nero is struggling so much to accept his limits today. Vergil already knows the answer because Vergil was hardly any different when it came to his parents, and especially his father. Dante's heads up about Nero getting in his head over wanting to keep pace and impress both him and Dante also certainly did not hurt in making Vergil more cognizant of that fact.]
[The arm around Nero releases before the Yamato is tucked beneath Vergil's arm at his side. He nudges Nero to stand upright a little better, holding Nero's face in both of his hands.]
I know you are not a child, but you have also not been someone's son for any longer than I have been someone's father. So, if I may suggest it, you ought to try extending some of the same grace you have given me in that regard to yourself right now.
[Man. Vergil really is all precision when he wants to be. There's a bullseye straight through the static and right into the heart of the problem, even if he can't quite articulate all the complicated facets of what and why.
He feels terribly vulnerable with his face between Vergil's hands, brought up to look him in the eye. The expression is something quite similar to worry, in fact.]
It's not you. It's me. [He's not sure why that's the very first thing he needs to say. But there it is.] It's stupid. It's not even a real problem.
[He sighs quietly. Nero is right in that it's not a real problem, but not for the reasons he likely possesses for deeming it as such. Regardless of whether or not Vergil's best guess at what is going on inside Nero's head is really what's going on for him right now, the problem is something Nero has conjured up for himself and does not truly lie between father and son right now.]
[Although there's a slight furrow in his brow, Vergil does not look at Nero with a critical eye right now.]
Nero, stop. Just listen to me. And before you respond, just take a moment with my words first. A real moment. Not in one ear and out the other.
[One of his hands moves down to Nero's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.]
When I was a boy, all I ever wanted was to please my parents. Nothing made me happier when Mother told me I did something well, or Father said he was proud of me. But nothing made me feel angrier or more frustrated and disappointed in myself than when I felt I fell short of their expectations. Mother barely had to say or do anything for me to know I disappointed her, and I would be in an inconsolable fit of tears. All it took was a few words from Father and I would be stuck replaying them over and over in my head for days afterward. It did not matter to me if it was a mistake that could not have been prevented, or if my own expectations were simply unreasonable, or how foolish I felt for my outbursts later. My reaction was the same each time.
But what I did not understand then is that regardless of whether either of them were ever truly disappointed or I had simply imagined it, they did not think of my mistakes afterward. My mistakes never really mattered, and were never such devastating blows as I thought they were in how they thought of me or what they felt towards me.
[Much as the problem Nero's conjured for himself exists only in his head, so, too, did those problems only exist in Vergil's head. It's a habit Vergil knows he still carries, still becomes lost in once the tide of emotion arises even when a rational part of himself knows better. After all, the memories of his parents still remains colored by those old concerns and hurts even as much as he can recognize now how wrong he was. It's just simply not something that disappears overnight as much as Vergil wishes it could or would be.]
So, whatever outcome you have convinced yourself hangs in the balance, I am telling you that it does not. Whatever opinion you think I might have of you right now, I promise you I do not hold it. [He gives Nero's shoulder another squeeze.] You have nothing to prove to me, Nero. You could have landed absolutely no blows today, and I would not think of you any differently than I did before we sparred.
You are my son. And I will always be proud of you. What you do or do not do will never change that.
[He doesn't try to argue or refuse to listen, even if he does have to divert his eyes. He just can't keep Vergil's gaze while his father absolutely pinpoints the worry, like he can see easily through all the emotional muck and hangups and whatever else makes it too tangled for Nero to figure out himself. Because it sounds like he went through the very same thing once.
He's had A Parent for all of a few months now, and didn't expect all the immediate, inborn longing for acknowledgment that would come with it. Though it's not a new feeling at all. Nero's felt it since he was little, when he would act on his best behavior for Sister Maria in particular, because it made her smile. Since he'd be obedient for Kyrie's parents whenever they visited. Since he sweat and bled and cried for Credo's approval, torn between how much he craved it and how much he hated falling in line, trying to sand off his edges to fit in with the other knights. The more time passes since his mentor's death, the more Nero wishes he was here so he could ask him if he ever could have made him happy. If he ever did. If it would have stopped him from falling in with Sanctus' plans and betraying Nero, then changing his mind and dying for it.
There's always been Kyrie, but she's always been his peer. He craved for the approval of an authority, an older man especially. But growing up without parents, without anyone but authority that only wanted him when he behaved and followed orders, that was the only way to receive it. What other way would anyone ever approve of him? What would otherwise stop them from rejecting him, too?
Now as plainly as if it was written on his shirt, Vergil's seen how desperately he's trying to prove himself to him, and told him that he does not need to. That he's proud of him. His father is proud of him, regardless of how he fights or what he does.
He can't even lift his fact again for a moment, eyes clenched shut, tears silently trailing down his cheeks.]
Nobody ever-- has been. Nobody wanted me to be me. Just to shut up and fight.
Your uncle and I only want you to be safe and happy, [he says, wiping away the tears with the hand not upon his shoulder. Normally, he would not speak for Dante like that, but he cannot imagine Dante objecting to that assertion. Not when he sacrificed so much in those five years in keeping Nero at arm's length to avoid drawing Nero further into his grandfather's legacy and the consequences that come from it.] It is not for us to decide anything else for you beyond that.
[He wonders if Nero knows just how different his life would have been had circumstances been so that Vergil would have had the courage to stay with his mother even if not in Fortuna. He knows there's likely been fantasies built up in his head of what it would have been to have two parents who loved him more than anything, but there are probably still yet some things he cannot fathom because it simply is impossible to know so intimately the things one has not experienced firsthand. But Vergil would like to think in those circumstances, where he had it within him to stay instead of running away as he had in reality, Nero would have been permitted to grow up without ever needing to pick up a sword. That he would have been allowed to pursue any number of passions long before learning to wield a blade or firing a gun. And even in the absence of that ideal, Vergil would hope that Nero would know his worth had either one of his parents if not both of them in his life. He did not need to prove anything to anyone because he was loved so tremendously beyond just the moment he was born and whatever time Beatrice was able to give him.]
If all I cared for was your strength and skill in battle, why would I ever watch those videos of those men beating one another senseless with chairs or dropping down on one another from ladders with you when you ask? Why would I see to it that your home here has a place where you can work on your projects at your leisure? Much less, why would I ever allow you to put me in that horrendous sweater on Christmas?
Frankly, if the sweater did not result in me renouncing you as my son, you should remain confident nothing will.
[He's joking a little by the end there with the commentary upon the matching Christmas sweaters to lighten some of the tension he knows Nero must be feeling, but the point is nonetheless a serious one. If all he was ever interested in was knowing his son's strength as a warrior, and it was that alone that sparked any interest in Nero, he wouldn't have wholeheartedly agreed to delay sparring with him like this, and instead taken the time to learn more of his interests and hobbies. Even as Vergil asks perhaps too many questions during the wrestling videos and he somewhat awkwardly just keeps himself out of the way when he pays a visit to Nero in the garage, he's present in those moments for the same reason he's willing to listen to songs that are far from the sort of music he enjoys and tries a sample of food when he's asked. They are things important to his son, and whether or not Vergil necessarily likes any of it or understands their appeal, it still helps him to understand and know Nero better. And it's worth whatever confusion or discomfort or awkwardness that might sometimes come along with it for the sake of knowing Nero because Nero shall always be worth it.]
[That his father and uncle want him to be safe and happy. Sometimes, it's to an annoying level-- like Dante's bad habit of shoving Nero out of things that really ought to be his business, even for his own good. But that aside, neither of them have ever given him reason to believe he's only worth what strength he has as a fighter. Dante, certainly never. And Vergil... even his far more stern, less social, more combat-focused father has done nothing to suggest it. Not with any of his cognizant actions, anyway. It's not fair to hold Urizen against him, or to extrapolate assumptions about him into unwritten standards that Vergil himself has never tried to impose.
It's as Nero said. A problem he created himself, spun up from his own experiences, the damage he carries from his childhood. On some level he knows that, and yet... there is something incredibly powerful about hearing Vergil say it all explicitly.
He sniffles. Clenches his eyes shut when Vergil touches his face. So this is what it feels like to have your father wipe your tears away... even as part of him is embarrassed for it, another part marvels and treasures the opportunity. And he can't help but crack a smile when Vergil mentions the sweater, which he was inarguably a good sport about. And the wrestling. And all the other shit Nero's been putting him through out of powerful desire to find common ground, to build something solid with his father. The same desire that makes him panic when he feels inadequate at the one thing he does know they both share.
Nero shakes his head a little and reaches up to rub his own eyes with both hands. Building his composure back, little by little.]
I'm not good at believing that kind of stuff. But I'm trying to learn how to. [A swallow, and he peers at Vergil between his fingers. It's just as he said before.] New at this "son" thing, you know?
[Vergil's hands fall away from Nero as he reaches up to rub his own eyes, leaving him unimpeded in gathering himself back up. There's a brief flicker of a smile as it seems everything has settled down. At least for now. It's certainly not going to be the last time the feeling of inadequacy rears its ugly head for either of them, and it would be foolish to assume otherwise. But at the very least, Nero is feeling better, and he believes Vergil for the moment that his opinion of Nero is not rooted in his strength or fighting prowess never mind his performance today. Not that there was anything actually poor about it to begin with. The fact he landed anything for his first time sparring with Vergil is impressive in its own right.]
[Perhaps he may believe Vergil's word more that he did well if he ends up sharing any of the training itself with Dante. He can't imagine his brother wouldn't praise Nero for getting in the dozen or so strikes he managed, knowing the difficulty Vergil poses with his speed alone. Nero ought to trust his opinion enough to know Dante isn't out to just inflate his ego, and Vergil was not merely saying as much in attempt to soothe a bruised ego.]
You've done well at it so far, [he says, transferring Yamato back to his hand.] Go on and collect your blade. If you're anything like your uncle, I imagine you've worked up an appetite by now.
[It does help that he frankly cannot imagine Vergil saying anything untrue in order to soothe a bruised ego. Or lying in general. The man is honest to a fault on basically any topic that doesn't involve himself. If he was just puffing up Nero to make him feel better, it would be incredibly obvious.
The anger is fading, and he's left to deal with the embarrassment and shame it leaves behind. A ridiculous display by any definition. But he tries hard to apply that grace of his inward, treat it the way he did when Vergil flew off the handle that day they had their hard conversation. Firmly, but kindly: stop beating yourself up. Especially over things that nobody is going to hold against you.
Jeez. They really are father and son, huh...
Still, red-eyed and both physically and emotionally sore, he does look a little hangover-sulky yet as he heads over to pull Red Queen out of the ground.]
I'm starving. [And beat to hell. He really wants to sit down for like, half a day.] What are you thinking?
Your choice. I'm not particularly hungry, [he says, watching Nero as he makes his way back to Red Queen and removes her from the ground. Nero does well in masking it, but Vergil would hazard a guess that he's more bruised than he's letting on. Vergil did not take it easy on him simply because Nero is his son. Mistakes as they sparred were punished just harshly and swiftly as they would be were it anyone else in the absence of Nero setting a further limit.]
God, how? [Muttered more to himself than a real question. He could take out an entire cow right now with the hollow emptiness in his stomach. It's like every calorie he ate so far today went straight through him and came out in sparring.
As he straps Red Queen to his back, he thinks about it a moment.]
I want noodles. Like a big ol' honking bowl of noodle soup.
[Even if he hadn't muttered it to himself, the most Vergil would be able to give in response would be a shrug. There's been enough periods of time in his life where he's had less, and less secure means of feeding himself that he's grown accustomed to it. At least, that's how Vergil would prefer to think of it relative to the alternatives of how other things in his life may have changed him.]
[At his request for a large bowl of noodles, Vergil nods and draws Yamato once more to open a portal. He knows of a place in Epiphany. He's been there a handful of times with Mizu after a morning or afternoon in the library together before parting ways. If the portions lent themselves to Mizu not ordering several bowls, they should be enough for Nero. He waits until Nero joins him again before stepping through the portal and out the other side to the street in Epiphany.]
[The doorway to the shop is just a few steps down from the street itself, and left wide open even in the cooler temperatures of winter. Even standing on the street itself, the heat of the shop can be felt radiating outward. A wooden menu board sits outside just next to the entryway with a listing of the day's specials, pictures included. Vergil walks ahead of Nero, but stops at the entryway to raise the cloth banners hanging down with Yamato for Nero to duck inside first. The majority of seating inside is countertop, right in front of the kitchen area, but there are a few small tables scattered about the rest of the floor that can be moved around with chairs as needed for larger groups.]
Pick what you want, [Vergil says, nodding to the ticket machine near to the entrance with the entirety of the menu available, including appetizers, beverages, and dessert.] Take the ticket to the counter, pay, and have a seat wherever you like.
[Normally, Vergil would be willing to pay for whatever Nero wanted and one look at the prices on the ticket machine would indicate this isn't a particularly expensive menu. But his funds are a little depleted after the holiday, and while he would not necessarily admit such a thing aloud... Vergil is willing to allow mild implication by not making any offer to pay.]
[Nero would also suggest Vergil's not hungry because he hardly broke a sweat in their spar. But that's a slippery slope to getting himself mad all over again.
The shop is nice and warm inside, and it's gonna feel good to sit and drink something hot. He does give Vergil a bit of a side-eye at telling Nero to pay. Normally he's jumping to be the one to pay, but it is a little funny to suggest going out and have Nero cover his own ticket.
[Vergil's brow furrows a little when he's told to go sit, and the implicit offer is to pay for him. He doesn't exactly bristle at the offer, but neither does he readily accept it.]
Jasmine tea is fine... [he says, walking away to sit at one of the tables.]
[He would just ask for water alone considering it's the only item on the menu that doesn't cost anything, but Vergil knows he's not going to be allowed to walk away if he simply declines altogether or tries for something like that. So, an inexpensive tea it is.]
[He'd joke that "loser pays" but he doesn't think Vergil would take it as a joke. Neither would he, actually.
At least because he's paying, Nero feels no guilt getting exactly what looks good. After some time up at the ticket machine, he pays the clerk and then comes over to sit across from Vergil. His eyes are a little red still, but he looks moderately less glum than earlier. In this lighting it's a little easier to see how scuffed-up he is, though, and there's the unmistakable ginger movements of someone trying to avoid aggravating an injury.
A staff member drops off two waters, and two cups of jasmine tea. Look, Vergil. Nero even takes a sip before he starts looking around for sugar, only relenting when he realizes there isn't any.
Then he kind of just stares at Vergil, not having a clue what to say, to the point he lets out a brief sigh and attempts to fix his no-doubt mussed up hair. Damn. When you really don't want to talk about something, but also it's the only thing on your mind...]
[He thinks better of asking Nero, but Vergil wonders privately if his healing factor has changed or improved at all since the full extent of his power has awakened. Vergil lacks the reference point to determine it certainly for himself beyond the observation that it is slower than either his or Dante's healing. Now is not the time to ask though. Not when Nero's pride is likely more damaged and battered than he is physically at present despite the visible improvement to his mood. So, instead of asking, he waits for Nero to begin the conversation again. Nothing comes though as staff bring them drinks. He raises a slight eyebrow at Nero also ordering tea and watches him with a mild bit of skepticism as he takes that first sip. Surprisingly, he pulls no faces or overt signs of disliking it, but Vergil will be surprised if it's touched any further let alone finish before the water.]
[Vergil sips at his own tea idly in their silence. He's not looking at Nero, instead watching the movement in the kitchen from their position, but he can feel his son's eyes on him. Glancing at him as he's fixing his hair, Vergil wonders if perhaps he's looking for him to make conversation. Surely not. He knows Vergil is terrible at it generally speaking, and is always far more comfortable with following another's lead. But the silence stretches on after Nero's quiet sigh.]
[Alright, let's see...]
[He idly drums a finger against his cup of tea as he mulls over the possibilities. Anything pertaining to their training session is off-limits as far as Vergil is concerned. Too tricky of a minefield with Nero only just coming down from the height of his emotion. He could mention how and why he knows this place, but that's irrelevant and if Nero cared, he would have asked already. He could ask what Nero ordered for himself, but that's not likely going to lead to much by way of conversation either. Perhaps his plans for the rest of the day? No... But maybe...?]
You've been here for a while now in Folkmore. Do you feel you're settling in?
[Vergil knows Nero has been trying to explore different parts of Folkmore every now and again. He imagines by now he has found places he enjoys and possibly made himself some acquaintances at the very least if not friends.]
[It has... but mostly when he's in Devil Trigger. Nero heals faster than an ordinary human, but nowhere near fast enough to compare with Dante and Vergil casually wearing a blade to the heart or getting battered beyond what a human could take. He's not going to start feeling any improvement for a few hours yet, unless he can slyly snap into DT and kickstart it. Which would imply that he's hurt, which he doesn't want to reveal, so he'll just be wincing and faking it for a while yet.
He's expecting to just weather the silence until he comes up with something good to talk about, but is pleasantly surprised when Vergil actually comes up with one first.]
Yeah. I guess so. I don't think it'll ever stop being weird, but...
[Another sigh as he picks up his tea. The heat feels nice even if he doesn't super enjoy the taste.]
I've been thinking about Kyrie lately. I mean, I always think about her, but...
You miss her more than usual right now, [Vergil supplies easily. It's not hard to think of why she would be on Nero's mind more than is typical for him (which was likely already a lot). Christmas has come and gone, and New Year's is on the horizon. It's all time he's supposed to be spending with her, not apart. Plus when considering this is likely the longest he's been away from her perhaps since he's known her... Well. It's really only inevitable for him to be feeling a bit miserable right now.] I'm sorry, Nero. I cannot imagine it's easy being far from her this time of the year knowing how strongly you feel for her.
[It does seem somewhat cruel for the Fox to have not also brought her here with Nero. Much as Vergil thought it cruel for her to have waited so long in bringing Dante here. The again, Kyrie may just simply possess more sense than any of them, and not followed after a fox spirit as they had.]
Yeah. [Vergil hits it on the head once again. Maybe he's more astute than he lets on. Or maybe Nero has just been that obviously pathetic and sadsack about missing his girlfriend.
He offers a weak little crack of a smile.] Not that I would trade getting to be with you and Dante for her, but... I've never been away from her this long in our whole lives. It's hard. I just hope she really isn't worried about me. Or doesn't even notice I'm gone, however that works.
[Kyrie possesses 1000% more sense than all three of them put together.]
[Vergil pauses when Nero says he can't wait for Vergil to meet Kyrie, cup close enough that he's about to take another sip of his tea. It's not that Vergil believed he would never be allowed the chance to meet her. To some extent, that was always going to be inevitable. But Vergil also doesn't doubt that in the ferocity of Nero's feelings for Kyrie, there is an equally fearsome protectiveness for her as well. So, it strikes him as remarkable to hear Nero say that, to not dread the moment Vergil and Kyrie come face to face with one another beyond whatever way in which children always have a bit of anxiety about their parents meeting their choice in partner, but to actually look forward to it. Without having taken a sip, Vergil sets his cup back down.]
I would like to meet her, [he says with a small nod, not bothering with elaborating on the reasons why when Nero knows them well enough all in his own. Instead, he adds with a glance away from Nero,] When she is ready to meet me.
[They haven't spoken about it since that conversation on the balcony of Vergil's old apartment. It's not something that Vergil particularly dwells upon either. Not all that often, anyways. But he remembers what Nero said about that day Vergil attacked him in the garage and made off with his arm. Kyrie had been there, and seen the aftermath.]
[His glance away is not out of self-pity though, or even necessarily out of shame. He would not fault her if it took some time for her to feel comfortable enough to meet him regardless of whatever reassurance Nero offered or how much she trusted his judgment. Vergil would not force the matter any more than he has been or would be interested in forcing a relationship between Nero and himself. But it is an uncomfortable thing no matter what in knowing that the first impression that young woman has of Vergil is what it is even if it is simply the consequences of his choices. So, it is merely a brief glance away. Nothing prolonged or terrible.]
...I suppose I would like the opportunity to apologize to her as well. Even if not a direct apology then at least to provide her with less reason to worry or be fearful of me.
[It's normally not the sort of thing that he would admit aloud to anyone, but he feels it's important enough to swallow his pride and acknowledge it to Nero even if no one else. Then Nero will know that even if Vergil had not responded to Nero's words well that day, in the moment when they were said, he heard the entirety of what he said and not just the part meant to settle Vergil well enough to hear the primary point of wanting to trust him. Even if he does not dwell upon it much, Vergil's had more time to think on the repercussions of his actions beyond the immediate and the obvious. And he knows he wronged Kyrie and Nico as well in what he did that day, just in a far less direct manner.]
[When Vergil says he wants to apologize to Kyrie, Nero's face lights up like it hasn't since well before the spar that day. It's one thing to acknowledge that Kyrie might not be ready to meet him straight out the gate. But it's quite another to say, of his own volition, that he wants to apologize to her.
After all, the direct harm was done to Nero, but he passed out so fast he barely had time to be register what happened, much less be frightened. Kyrie (and Nico, too) had to find him facedown in a pool of his own blood, tourniquet his arm, get him to the hospital, and spend over a week terrified he was going to die. That Vergil considers that, that he's thought about it more than not at all, that he wants her to feel safe around him before all else...
That right there? That's fucking progress, baby. And he couldn't be more proud of Vergil for making that jump on his own volition. He's genuinely smiling as he speaks.]
I won't lie, she's gonna want to give you an earful. But I'll talk to her first. Once she's spoken her mind she'll be as warm as ever. And oh my god, her cooking is so good...
[He's getting that gooey soft look in his eyes again. But it's not all directed at Kyrie this time. He looks genuinely put at ease by this conversational revelation, like the last of the foul mood he was in has been banished.
(It is slightly fucked up, he thinks, that he's going to have to talk his girlfriend down from being pissed at the father who ripped his fucking arm off. But in a "this sure is my family" kind of fucked up way that he's starting to get more used to.)]
She'll be happy our family has grown above everything else.
[It's strange to think that Vergil would ever possess a positive feeling towards being lectured, but oddly enough, he does. If she could feel comfortable enough to speak her mind to him like that, it would hopefully be a good sign of things to come even if Nero's prediction that she would be warmer afterward didn't come to immediate fruition. He smiles a little at the prospect without realizing he is as he sets his cup back down on the table.]
[At Nero's comment about the growth of their family, Vergil's smile does not fade, not exactly, but his gaze is momentarily a little more wistful. For so much of Vergil's life, he's really only ever known loss. First it was father, and then soon after his mother and brother. The only home he'd ever known. Beatrice was there for a time, but he was the one who denied himself that future out of his own fear and insecurities of being able to protect it. And in doing that, he unknowingly both lost her forever as well as his son. It was much the same with Dante in that he could not take his brother's hand, could not reconcile what he knew to be true with what Dante proposed. He lost the Yamato. He lost his memories, his very life. It is a wonder, frankly, that Vergil found any reason to carry on, to claw his way back to the human world and reclaim his blade after that much loss.]
[But somehow by the end of it, he found himself again. More than just the broken things that survived and carried on the day his mother died, but the whole of himself. He found his brother again. He found his son. And for all the aspects of this place that Vergil finds to be tedious and irritating, that sense of loss he might have felt at having to leave behind his son again because he knew he could not have him or that future unless he cleaned up the mess he created... He's managed to ultimately avoid that here. He's had time to get to know Nero, and realize there is a place for him in Nero's life after all. He's grown closer with his brother, too. The pair of them trying so hard to find another way beyond fighting to connect and understand one another, and these days only getting into petty squabbles with one another as siblings are wont to do. And he's found... Well, there's really little denying it anymore, is there? Even if it still feels impossible to say so directly, he's found love.]
[His smile fades then, although it's not the most serious of expressions that takes up residence when it does. It's more a calm neutrality that arises, the look that no doubt Nero has come to learn signals Vergil has something to say that is important, but is not something that should raise alarm or concern.]
On that note, there is something that I have been meaning to tell you for a while now. There just has not been...a good time to tell you until now.
[It certainly would not have been the time to say anything when Nero first arrived and there was so much they needed to sort through first. It also would not have done well for Vergil to make mention of it too soon after their conversation. Much of that needed to settle and simmer, and a routine of sorts needed to be found.]
[But Vergil has also been uncertain whether or not it was appropriate to tell Nero. He hasn't been concerned Nero would somehow be upset that Vergil was not pining after Beatrice. He loved her. Some part of him still loves her and always will. She was his first love, after all, and the mother to his child. There is nothing that could possibly remove her from his heart like that. But even if she were alive and within reach, Vergil would not presume to rekindle something with her. No doubt she would be a different person than she was back then and likely moved on a long time ago. He imagines the most they might be is friends if she could find it within her to forgive him for abandoning her in the first place. He also does not even particularly worry himself necessarily over Nero's opinion of Mizu. While he wouldn't necessarily categorize Mizu as one of Nero's favorite people, there does not appear to be contempt or disdain there. He's not opposed to her, at the very least. And beyond that, Vergil trusts that Mizu is no more interested in parenting Nero than Nero is interested in being parented by her.]
Mizu and I...
[No, the hold up on Vergil's part has been more on the words for what they are. He's avoided any such label for so long now. Even when they were just friends to one another, he always couched it in being sparring partners. As though their interest in one another or the camaraderie they were building was rooted solely in their ability and interest in fighting one another, and had not naturally blossomed into other things. It seemed better to him not to presume anything in calling Mizu a friend lest the feeling was not reciprocated and Vergil truly was a means to an end. Since their relationship evolved and their intimacy deepened...]
[Well, this is not something that will last beyond this world. At some point, Vergil will leave with his family, and Mizu will return to her world to seek her revenge. Words have power and weight, more than most give them credit for. Vergil does not believe he could withstand the weight of calling Mizu or what they have something only for it to be taken from him regardless of who bears responsibility for that loss.]
We are more than just friends to one another. We have been for a few months now.
[He's still thinking of Kyrie, but in a happier way than earlier. Imagining what it'll be like to have dinners with his whole family. How much Vergil is going to adore her when he gets to know her. He wonders if he'll comment on the similarities between Kyrie and Beatrice-- his Christmas gift from Vergil has been thoroughly studied as much as it has been treasured, and their resemblance didn't escape his notice. The "Type" must run in the family.
But speaking of that, Vergil changes the subject, and though Nero at first looks quite concerned by the graveness with which he says he needs to tell him something (force of habit, okay), it turns out to be... well. It's pretty surprising, actually.]
Like, you're dating?
[For a moment, Nero looks deeply, deeply puzzled by this information. Vergil? Is dating someone? He doesn't seem the type. Shit, he doesn't seem the type so much Nero remains kind of surprised he even exists. That's such a weird swerve that the fact Vergil is dating a guy kind of takes a huge second place, though that's surprising as well.
And then, perhaps frustratingly for how much difficulty Vergil had preparing for the topic, Nero shrugs.]
Cool. Good for you, I guess.
[He's restricted from saying more as a staff member arrives with his order-- an absolutely massive bowl of curry pork ramen, and gyoza on the side. He thanks the server and waits until they depart to crack out the chopsticks, or make any further comment.]
Did he swordfight you until you asked him out? Heh.
[Well, that's... It's not a terrible response by any stretch of the imagination, but Vergil didn't think it would be quite that subdued and nonchalant. Especially given the expression on Nero's face there for a moment as he processed the information. He anticipated there might be questionsβsome of which, Vergil knew he was in no way prepared to answerβor even a little bit of balking once the information truly settled. Instead, that was it. Really?]
[...Well, alright then. If that's it then there's no need for Vergil to try and illicit more. Especially not when it comes to the questions he doesn't even know where it begin in answering.]
[Vergil glances at the staff as they set the food down in front of Nero, and he's vaguely surprised it's only the one bowl of ramen regardless of the portion sizes here.]
Suuuure you didn't. [He doesn't believe that WHATSOEVER given he's pretty sure Mizu's one and only hobby is swordfighting. To the death. Though given the fact he's apparently dating Vergil, that could take on a whole other meaning now.
Oh, god, ugh. Fucking gross. (Ah, so this is what it's like to be disgusted at the thought of your parent being a sexual person...)]
Do I need to give him The Talk for you? I will, you just say the word. [He's mostly teasing, but he's also really not.]
I assure you that you do not need to take up the mantle on his behalf. I hear plenty of it now, alongside him gesturing with his hands like he is firing his guns.
[He rolls his eyes before taking another sip of his tea. Vergil is only mildly relieved that Mizu and Dante do not appear to speak to one another all that much. At least, not that he's heard. Dante would likely grow comfortable enough with her over time to make similar remarks. It's bad enough Vergil must listen to them, but he's Dante's twin. Mizu does not deserve being subjected to that sort of...humor.]
[Nero laughs and shoots Vergil a wink and a fingergun over his bowl. Then he's given at least a brief respite for a moment as Nero takes a few bites, simply too hungry to continue trolling his father right now.
When he's done chewing and swallowing he'll offer just one more comment on the matter.]
Well, congrats, I guess. It's really none of my business, for the most part. As long as you're happy, good for you.
[Vergil fixes Nero with a look that's typically reserved for Dante. The sort of look that silently communicates that if he were not a blood relative... He just sips his tea while Nero eats his ramen, which he was about to direct Nero to do instead of continuing with his commentary had Nero not taken the initiative himself.]
[He nods a little to Nero's words after he's had a few bites, but says nothing in response. Vergil finds the offer of congratulations a bit odd, but there's nothing he finds objectionable about Nero recognizing that Vergil's relationship with Mizu is largely none of his business. And as for the matter of happiness...?]
[When Dante asked Vergil if he was happy with Mizu, he didn't know exactly how to answer. Not to say that he was unhappy in any way, but it had only been a couple of weeks at that point. It was difficult to tell with how fresh and new everything had been if it was the novelty or if he truly had found happiness with Mizu. Never mind that... Well. Happiness is a fleeting thing in the majority of Vergil's experiences, often slipping from his fingertips before he can even realize it's right there in front of him. Assuming that he even allowed for it in the first place.]
[But Vergil finds himself astonishingly happy here in Folkmore. Not just with Mizu. With Dante and Nero. With his life here. There's a part of him that keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to happen where some part of this dream is stripped away from him, but it's grown a little quieter as of late.]
[Vergil doesn't push for further conversation to allow Nero to eat.]
Nero is content to eat for a bit, filling in the void that is his growling stomach with a massive quantity of curry broth, marinated pork, noodles, and all the toppings. He takes a break for gyoza, offering Vergil some if he'd like to nibble. Amazing how a bit of food can turn his mood around so quickly.
Not that he's completely forgotten about the fiasco earlier. He's still pretty embarrassed at his meltdown, and wondering if he ought to apologize for it. Though he'd admittedly also just like to drop it forever and pretend it didn't happen. Shuffling in his seat, one of the severe bruises across his back announces itself with a twinge, and Nero visibly winces at the motion, squirming a little until he can get comfortable again.
Okay. Maybe he can't really pretend it didn't happen just yet...]
I... didn't get a chance to, but. I'm getting better at holding my Devil Trigger.
[With his tea nearly finished, Vergil accepts the offered gyoza, helping himself to one. He was not exaggerating when he said he did not have a particularly strong appetite, and does not find himself needing or wanting more beyond that. He sets aside his emptied cup once the last of his tea is gone, and moves the water in front of him instead. Although Vergil says nothing to the wince of pain, it's obvious that it pulls his attention quickly. He looks up from the table as Vergil catches Nero's movement in his peripheral vision, a furrow in his brow. But Nero is fine relatively speaking. Vergil did nothing to him that a day or two would not likely fix. Vergil sits back a little in his seat again, having not realized he'd leaned forward out of instinct.]
Good. [They'd already spoken of the importance of increasing his endurance, and it was already on Nero's mind when they had. So, of course, Vergil approves of that and is glad to hear Nero is following through on what he's expressed wanting to do. He pauses a moment before asking,] Are you pushing yourself until you cannot hold it any longer, or are you leaving it when you are feeling the beginnings of fatigue?
[It's more a point of curiosity than anything. There is, unfortunately, no real manual given to anyone of their mixed heritage that explains the best methodology in accessing Devil Trigger and maximizing its power.]
[This is him attempting to focus on what went right during the spar. Which in his opinion is very little, but he's also aware he's inclined to think more about all the things that failed instead of what was actually accomplished.
He makes a bit of a face at the question, mostly because he has to answer:] The first one. [Not a big surprise, given how Vergil just watched him nearly burn himself out physically, too.]
At home in my room, mostly. Not sure why it has to make me look butt-ass naked...
[Vergil speculates that Nero's form is likely influenced by the amount of human blood within him relative to Vergil or Dante. Hence the..."butt-ass naked" (as Nero put it) in that form. But given his earlier behavior even with his significantly improved mood, Vergil doesn't think it wise to point that out even if he does not mean it in a negative sense. But it does bring up a question that Vergil tries and fails to think of how to ask in as delicate manner as he possibly can beyond simply just asking it. So, it is with a slight bit of hesitation that he simply asks:]
[Hell of a question. Nero makes a crooked little smirk around his mouthful of noodles and darts his eyes aside, as though he'll find a good answer elsewhere in the room.]
I dunno. [He says, finally.] Demons don't really give a shit what I look like, so it doesn't bother me in action but...
[Another crookedly awkward purse of his lips, inverse of the first.] Not like I can change it if it's meant to be my true self.
[Which is all to say, yes. He's not super confident in that skin yet.]
[Although it's true that there's nothing to be self-conscious about, Vergil cannot very well say that to Nero. Well, he can. But he's not exactly going to be believed.]
You will grow accustomed to it with time. [And if not with time, well. Vergil's certain it will not lack in...appeal for others. At least that's been Vergil's experience. But that's something for Nero to discover on his own, and not to be discussed between father and son.] For what it is worth, however, I believe it suits you. It reflects your demonic heritage. You bear traits similar to me and your grandfather. But it still reflects your humanity.
[Which, yes, is because of his human blood, but Vergil chooses the word humanity to describe it instead for a reason.]
It is both your power and your strength made manifest. I see it as something to take pride in.
[He realizes a moment too late that that might sound like he's dismissing what Vergil said, or jabbing his own devil's appearance. Which he is, but... it's a little funny, isn't it? Demons aren't going to think it's funny when he's crushing their skulls in his palms or snapping them in half like an overextended measuring tape, which is what really matters. Nero's just going to have to get used to looking buff and nude.
It's something else he says that brings him back around though.]
[Vergil wrinkles his nose slightly at the "clappin' cheeks" remark, but he takes no particular offense to it. At this point, Vergil is a little more accustomed to Nero's tendency for flippant remarks and recognizes them not to serve the same purpose as Dante's which are so often meant to be dismissive and minimizing. It is just simply how Nero talks. Vergil doesn't always care for it... But he would also hazard a guess Nero does not always care for Vergil's vocabulary either, so to that end they are even.]
Of course, [he says so matter-of-fact, one should think it the obvious comparison. Not that Vergil thinks it entirely unreasonable for not seeing the similarities with Sparda given that the Order possessed some...unique interpretations for his visage. It's only been recently that Nero has been afforded the opportunity to see Sparda as he actually was in human form the family portrait at the very least.] Do you disagree?
[Kind of worth it for the nose wrinkle, to be honest. Nero is new to being a son and also new to the classic, universal joy that is vexing one's uptight father. And honestly? Big fan.]
Well, yeah. I mean, like this... [He gestures between them, indicating their faces. Yeah, it's not escaped his attention that he's a dead ringer for his father, to the point they might have guessed they were related even if they didn't know it for a fact. So many times, Nero sees his own face looking back at him-- like with that nose wrinkle, for instance.]
Can't say I got much of a look at your devil, [when he was spiking you into the ground like a football] but... other than being blue, I don't know.
[And then, he lets slip a very telling remark, perhaps still thinking of the earlier spar.] I feel so far apart sometimes.
[Vergil cannot simply tell Nero not to feel the way that he does both because if it were that simple, Nero would have done that already, and because Vergil would have as well. Nothing could really be quite so hypocritical as to tell his own son not to feel something that he himself has felt acutely for the majority of his life. Most frustrating than the lack of a straightforward affirmation though is Vergil also lacks the ability to advise Nero forward. There is no real solution that came to him or that he worked toward that soothed those feelings of inadequacy within him that they now bear less control over him and his decisions as they once did. It is something a number of things likely contributed towards, if he's honest.]
I... [he starts, faltering a little. Vergil remains uncertain where to start or how much to share, and deeply uncomfortable with the level of vulnerability that it feels it takes to say anything at all. But Vergil also does not wish to meet Nero's confession with silence. That would be far too cruel of a choice to make so willingly.] I know it may be difficult to believe from what you know or have been told, but I am...familiar. With that feeling.
[Vergil doesn't know what has been discussed between Nero and Dante precisely, but an explicit conversation isn't even likely needed. He's seen enough of both twins at this point to tell the differences in how they fight, relaying even just a little of the differences in how they've each grown into their power. But even setting that aside, Vergil sits confident in his own strength and power, outclassing most that Nero will ever come to face. The idea of anyone who so readily accepted his powers, who sees the devil within him to be just as much himself than a separate entity, bearing that sort of insecurity that Nero acknowledged seems incongruent.]
Father was... He was not some savior of humanity to me. [Not in the sense of how the Order attempted to raise Nero to think of him as being, and not in the manner of it being his greatest accomplishment, nor a legacy that Vergil aspired to uphold someday. It was never about that.] He was our father. Our protector. So long as he was there, we knew we would be safe because he was stronger than anything that might try to threaten us. To tell you the truth, I believed that so strongly, I was likely the last among the three of us left behind to accept that Father was not returning after he left. He was everything that I wanted to grow to be, and it seemed unfathomable to me that he could ever...
[Vergil waves a slight hand. He accepted it a long time ago that his father was likely dead in the best case scenario. In the worst, however... He did not like to entertain that scenario.]
I think because of that, Dante always believed I wanted to be as strong and powerful as Father, but the truth is, after Mother died, I wanted to surpass him.
[It's there that Vergil feels the limits of what he's willing to part with both in this less private setting, and in general. There's much of his life that Nero does not know, does not need to know. But it is perhaps enough for him to understand that Vergil's desire for power began somewhere, and not somewhere out of malice for others.]
That feeling you have can be all-consuming and blinding, but it is important you guard yourself against it.
Each time I knocked you to the ground, you rose to your feet again. But rather than doing so out of the strength you possess, you did it out of anger and spite towards yourself. You focused on your mistakes not for the sake of learning from them, but to punish yourself because that feeling inside you told you that you were being inadequate. A disappointment.
And in doing so, you did not just lose sight of the fact you landed a dozen blows today against an opponent with greater mastery over his power and abilities, and has been fighting demons far longer than you have been alive. You were driven to self-destruct because that would have been more tolerable to you than that feeling continuing its endless refrain.
[Vergil glances away from Nero then, pausing a moment and folding his arms loosely across his chest. He does not want Nero to be like him. He wants Nero to surpass him. Not in strength or fighting prowess, but in the ways that truly matter.]
I told you that you were born with all the strength and power you will ever need to possess. It is only a matter of learning to wield them, which will come with time and practice.
You must find ways to remember that even when you've made mistakes or failed to meet the expectations you set for yourself.
[He's not so dense not to notice Vergil struggling with this. It's another one of those things he can tell his father says from a place of profound experience. His own experience, as he admits. It's so clearly uncomfortable for him to tread into these topics, and Nero deeply appreciates the effort he takes to do so anyway. The only reason he's not looking at him making serious eye contact to show he's listening is that he knows it'll probably make Vergil uncomfortable.
But once again, Mr. Precision has absolutely cut to the heart of the issue. It's a diagnosis he wouldn't have been willing to hear half an hour ago, but an undeniably true one. It wasn't strength that made him keep getting up today. It was fear. Fear of disappointing Vergil, fear of proving himself inadequate, fear that giving up meant failing meant a permanent diminishing of himself.]
I know you're right. [Painfully right. He'd rather have pushed himself unconscious today than thrown in the towel, and being made to do so set him off hard.
And yeah, he is young, he is inexperienced with his powers, he IS at a disadvantage as far as sheer genetics go (a thing he will never admit out loud and never wants to hear, even though he's sure they both know it's a factor.) But...]
And I know it'll take time, but- it's hard to be patient. When I'm not strong enough, people die. They have died, because I wasn't strong enough. I can get over wounded pride, but if something happened to you guys, or Kyrie...
[That's not really something he can solve. Vergil can't solve it either. So all Nero can do is give him a brief shrug and a shake of his head.]
I don't know how I learn to handle those stakes. I have to anyway.
[What Nero saysβthat he must find a way to handle those stakesβis the unfortunate reality of their existence. After his mother's death, Vergil spent his life being chased and hunted in some form or fashion. Realistically he knows Dante did not likely fare much better even if he was able to hide for a time. Nero has not known a life like that, but because of the blood that flows in his veins, he knows firsthand what man will do and can correctly speculate on devil. At no point will any of that stop being a fact of their lives. Even if Mundus is no more or places like this can offer a slight reprieve, that's all it ever is. Just a reprieve. But even if that is all true, Vergil wishes he could say otherwise. He wishes that there could be a time where it would not be Nero's concern if he and his loved ones are ever truly safe. But the most Nero can do is be as ready as he can.]
[So, Vergil hums his quiet agreement.]
If either your uncle or I knew how, we would tell you.
[Because Vergil isn't going to pretend as though either one of them have figured it out even now. Of his life that he was himself and in control of it, Vergil spent it largely isolated and alone. As a child, he did not fully reject the help of strangers out of recognition there were simply things an eight year old could not accomplish on his own. But he never stayed. He took what he needed and he left again and again until Beatrice, and he hadn't possessed the courage by then to stay with her. As for Dante, he has friends. The people that he trusts above all the others as far as Vergil can tell are Lady and Trish, but those are bonds he forged in hardship and tragedy. Those are not people he found for himself and connected with. He would be just as alone as Vergil otherwise.]
But you do not need to figure it out on your own. Dante and I will not allow what was taken from us to be taken from you.
[Obviously, there's no easy answer. Dante and Vergil had been struggling with the same thing all their lives, even if he doesn't know the specifics or just how profoundly they'd been affected by the nature of their blood, the danger it poses, and the obligation it represents. The only real answer is for Nero to be patient and calm: two things he pretty much sucks at.
He longs to take Vergil's statement that they are there to protect him as reassurance, but it comes with a fatal hole that he can't reconcile.]
That goes both ways. I'm not gonna sit back and let anybody else take over protecting what's mine to protect. And I'm really not gonna let anybody else die for my sake.
[He gives Vergil a serious look.]
If we're doing it together, then we're all together. Don't leave me behind or put me on the sidelines. Let me help you, too.
[Vergil meets Nero's gaze. He doesn't know if it should or should not be an easy thing to promise, but it certainly feels more complicated than on its surface. To an extent, it's not particularly difficult. He doesn't believe fully sheltering Nero serves him well. That sort of coddling leaves him unprepared and vulnerable should the worst happen. But as Nero's father, Vergil is compelled to protect him regardless of the cost.]
I cannot promise you what will or will not come to pass in the future. The most I can say is that it is not my intention to leave you or be separated from you again so long as it is within my power to prevent it.
[He shakes his head a little.]
Truthfully, Nero, I did not wish to leave you in the human world and return to the Underworld. [Vergil's lips purse as he swallows thick. There was no part of him that wanted to leave Nero with only a promise, and certainly not for the Underworld, which he has had his fill of a long time ago.] But there are...
[He sighs, breaking the gaze with Nero. Shame and guilt creep into the back of his throat, leaving his mouth dry and words unable to be formulated. One would think it would not be so had to acknowledge. After all, V had alluded to Vergil's various sins to Nero just before the end almost akin to a deathbed confessional should the worst come to pass, and he was unable to succeed in his mission to make himself whole again. It's not as though Nero is ignorant of the fact Vergil has a past of choosing his survival above all else, of neglecting his humanity for the sake of power. And it's not as though there was not more than just the simple act of attacking Nero that led him to need to hear Vergil say out loud that he would do nothing to bring harm to Nero. Surely that knowledge played its role as well. But even so, Vergil finds himself stumbling here and now, as he does not even know how to articulate it. Then again, even if he could, would it make a difference to Nero?]
I do not believe it be protecting you by barring you from anything, [he says, looking back up to Nero once more. Whatever he was about to sayβand he isn't even sure himselfβis dropped.] You are capable of making your own choices, and a stubborn enough fool like your father to make them even when others have placed obstacles to stop you. You would only put yourself in a more vulnerable position in that circumstance than if I did not make decisions like that for you.
But I need you to understand this, Nero: we will always work together to prevent it from reaching that point, but as your father, I will do whatever it takes to protect you. [And that may mean, in those extreme circumstances they would have exhausted every avenue to prevent, there may be no affording Nero a choice, or other choices Nero does not agree with Vergil making will need to be made.] Asking me not to do that would be akin to asking me to stop my own heart from beating.
[Vergil says it in more words than necessary, leaving the possibility for it to be lost even if the message is as simple as it is. Vergil loves Nero. More than anything or anyone. Clumsy as Vergil often is to show it and impossible as it is for him to express it directly by just saying it, Vergil loves Nero with an unmatched fierceness that would have him tearing down the very heavens themselves if that's what it took to keep him safe.]
[Vergil drifts off before he really addresses leaving Nero behind for the underworld. But he picks up shortly where it's left off.] I know there wasn't any other choice. You guys had to go. That doesn't mean I have to like it, or it didn't fucking hurt.
[It's the whole reason he's in Folkmore too, after all: looking for a way to reunite with his stranded father and uncle. And the first thing they'd both done is give him guff about not staying behind. Nero suspects that's going to be a pattern that plays out many, many more times, come what may... and now Vergil's been fairly warned about it.
It's still such a strange thing, to have someone say they'll protect you. You, specifically, because you're you, not because you're just a child or their responsibility. He gazes into his bowl and tries to process it. He thinks of Credo, and a thick knot forms in his throat.]
I won't let it happen. I won't let it get to that point.
[And if it does? It won't. It's just that simple. It cannot.]
[Vergil doesn't really know if it's actually possible for that to be the case. After so much bloodshed and loss, it seems difficult to believe that regardless of anyone's will, things will not reach that point yet again. But it can never be said that it got to that point because none of them tried. All three of them will fight like hell for it. Whatever it takes.]
Use that next time you train with me, [he says with a slight nod.] Don't get lost in your head thinking about trying to keep up with me, or with Dante. Don't dwell on what might happen if you fail or do not meet your expectations. Focus on why it is you are doing what you are doing.
[Nero needs to think about motivates him as being what he is protecting, not what he might lose. That is the righteous sort of anger that will allow him to press forward and grow.]
You will find your strength then to get back up regardless of how many times you are knocked down. If you can even be knocked down.
[It's a much better thing to focus on, though Nero knows that frustration and a perceived lack of progress are both slippery slopes for him. He can go careening back down the trail of feeling inferior and getting furious about it all too easily. But maybe he can try to catch himself next time.
He shoots Vergil a brief, somewhat sheepish edge of a smile. Honestly, he's pretty impressed he's been this eloquent in this conversation. Like he clearly wasn't going to get the disappointed dressing-down he feared, but Vergil's unusually astute on this topic in particular. From experience, no doubt... but it's something nice that he's able to offer his son in a time of need. All in all, Nero's glad that they did bring it up.
He does scoff at that last bit, though.] Yeah, think it's safe to say I can be knocked down. I can barely fucking sit still, my ass is so bruised.
[He hums in light amusement at Nero's complaints.]
You may wish to remember your bruised ass the next time you accuse me of being old then.
[It's said with a sly smile and a light kick to the shin under the table in the sort of playful roughhousing Dante really only ever seems to pull out of Vergil when his mood isn't too sour to find Dante's attempts at play obnoxious. But here it is now, directed at Nero as if it were the most natural thing in the world.]
[Sometimes, Nero thinks Vergil looks a lot like him. Others, he looks a lot like Dante. The shin-jab under the table is such a Dante maneuver he has to laugh.
But oh, no. He's not gonna take this lying down. (Because as soon as he lies down he's not getting up again.]
Oh my god. Did you just swear? Maybe I did hit you pretty hard...
[Vergil raises an eyebrow because this is undoubtedly one of the most juvenile, foolish things he's been party to in a while, but absolutely at all with Nero. It's possibly enough to make Nero think he isn't going to do it. Deem it beneath him both in being challenged like this and the general use of the word.]
[While Nero busts a gut laughing, Vergil suppresses any wider smile from forming at his son's laughter by taking a calm sip of water. It is a nice sound though, and it is certainly a much better sight than the hot, angry tears before they departed for the noodle shop.]
[Okay, fair enough... He's got quite a bit more of the bowl to go and Vergil probably has better things to do than pat his ass and watch him eat all afternoon. Nero shakes his head again and looks like he's going to make some sassy retort to that, but doesn't.
Instead, he tucks back into his noodles and hesitates a moment before coming up with something else to say.]
[Although Vergil says nothing to it, only acknowledging it with a slight nod to allow Nero to return to his noodles in relative peace, it still remains no small thing to hear Nero call him Dad. There had been a bit of a gap from when Nero said it the first time to when he heard it again afterward, and still gaps between that and the time after. But little by little, the gaps are closing. Nero does not seem to be awkwardly debating which name to call Vergil by, or building himself up to say it confidently, or whatever it was going through his head before he says it, and Vergil cannot think the last time he heard his name from Nero. So, by now, it's perhaps not an entirely novel thing to have Nero call him Dad. But Vergil's heart feels all the fuller for it regardless, warmed by such simple affection in a single word that Vergil once thought would be nearly impossible for him to possess.]
[He feels...good about today, he reflects.]
[For as little as he (hopefully) displayed to Nero, Vergil had some nerves going into this training session with him. Vergil knew their fight atop the Qliphoth was not reflective of his own skill and strength, for one. The potential for such inaccurate expectations easily set the stage for something precarious all on its own. Factor in that it was the first time the pair were to clash with one another physically since agreeing to put off sparring with one another until there was a degree of comfort... Well, it was hard for Vergil not to feel a degree of nerves about the whole affair. And, of course, Vergil did not like witnessing Nero's breakdown when it finally erupted. What parent could watch their child tear themselves apart the way Nero had and do so without their own heart aching as well? It was only an additional layer in knowing that Nero was afflicted with a similar anxiety that had hounded Vergil for most of his life, and still does in moments when he's allowed his guard to lower or unwanted reminders arise.]
[But Vergil felt... Well, it may be an oversimplification all that happened today and what Vergil did, and it feels a bit foolish to think of it this way, but he's felt like a dad today. Like he earned it this time when Nero says it. Even with the anticipatory anxiety and the moments of uncertainty and the discomfort of vulnerability, he was able to guide Nero through today and helped him through hot, angry tears to full belly laughter. So, he felt like a dad. Feels like one even now while Nero focuses on eating and Vergil sits in companionable silent with his water. He feels so oddly grateful to Nero not just for giving him the word to describe how it feels in this moment, but for allowing him to help in the first place. For trusting him enough to make it better, not make it worse.]
[Once Nero is done eating, there is nothing else to do in the shop, but leave the dishes behind for the staff to bus. They leave behind the warmth of the noodle shop and step back out onto the chilly street. With home so close, there's no sense in using the Yamato, and so they walk instead.]
[They are only a few paces away from the noodle shop before Vergil reaches over and ruffles Nero's hair. It's briefβand nothing too rough given the soreness throughout most of his body stillβbut it's a silent gesture of affectionate gratitude. There will not always be days like today, but it is these sorts of days that Vergil can easily understand why they are what make the harder ones worth it.]
[Trish has certainly noticed the thoughtful appearance of nice bath toiletries and a bathrobe and what is actually a genuinely nice gift, so being thoroughly conflicted and surprised by the unexpected gesture, she returns it in her own way.]
I think I may owe you an apology to go with this.
Happy Christmas
Trish
[He will find a neatly wrapped package containing leatherbound copies of The Count of Monte Cristo and The Aeneid, for some reason, a tin of sardines.]
[Vergil frowns at the chime that originates from...his pocket. To his knowledge, there was nothing on his person that should or could possibly make noise. Reaching into his pocket results in a deepening of his frown as he feels his Relic where there should have been nothing. He hasn't a clue when exactly it got there or who put it there, but his suspicion leans towards the Fox more than Nero this time given its late discovery. That once would have been grounds for putting his Relic away and refusing to provide it with any further attention, but after that profile of him had been posted in that foolish app... Well, Vergil knows better than to ignore the Relic if it's making some sort of noise.]
[Never Fade is one of the smaller areas of Folkmore, but it's still non-specific as far as locations are concerned. So, it's at the edge of Cruel Summer that Vergil walks through to on the other side of his portal. It barely has time to close behind him before Vergil has slipped into his demonic skin and taken off for the island above to try and scan for his brother rather than wasting time trying to get a more specific location out of him, or finding him on foot. Hopefully, Dante hasn't been foolish enough to go wandering into the tunnels and expecting Vergil to find him easily that way...]
[Thankfully, within a few minutes, Vergil spots that familiar mop of hair and red coat from above. It's only a small relief to find him, however, because although there's no scent of blood on the air, Dante said he needed Vergil to come get him. The lack of blood is simply a rule-out of a few reasons why Dante may need him, but it's not enough to say nothing is amiss. Following the current of the wind up there, Vergil sharply turns his trajectory downwards to Dante. Vergil lands a few feet away with a forced calm rather than slamming down for a landing as he otherwise would like to do for the sake of just getting to his little brother sooner. He's barely touched the ground before his demonic skin falls away from him and he's making his way closer.]
I got here as soon as I could. [He places a hand on Dante's arm once he's in reach, his grip firm. There's a furrow in his brow that one could easily mistake as anger, but it's really just worry and concern. Torn between his concern for Dante and wariness for their surroundings, Vergil opts to not scrutinize his brother for the moment and instead takes stock of any signs of others skulking about first.] Are you hurt?
( He's lost track of how long he's been wandering β figures he'll just have to maybe fall from the damn island and cross his fingers the impact doesn't give him more than a couple bruises. He's been impaled and injured by how many demons over the years? Should be a piece of cake... doesn't mean he enjoys it though.
It takes him a second or two to really realize his brother is here, but. When he spots him, his steps slow and he just stands there. Staring. Watching the way his brother so effortlessly slips out of his own demonic skin and makes his way towards him β catches that expression there on his face and, as if instinct, he lowers his gaze.
When the touch comes to his arm, he looks over to his brother's hand β hears the concern there in his voice as he asks if he's hurt. Taking a second for himself, he shakes his head. Just... needs a second to figure out what to say here now. Not because he didn't think Vergil would just leave him here. But because he didn't really think his brother would get the message, never mind in a relatively timely manner. )
I want to go home. But I don't feel like falling from the island and hoping I don't go kersplat on the ground.
( He still doesn't look up to Vergil as he says that, his voice seeming tired. )
[Once certain there is no one else about, Vergil looks at his brother. He chooses to take Dante at his word that he isn't hurt, and he just wants to go home. It offers no real explanation for what exactly has happened, but rather than interrogating his brother right now, Vergil decides it's more important to get him home safe.]
Spare me your apologies, [he says, releasing Dante's arm. Vergil place a hand at the center of Dane's back briefly before stepping away from him.] Unless you have some wrongdoing I'm yet unaware of that you'd like to confess, I've no need of it.
[Unsheathing Yamato, Vergil opens a portal that will take them back home, more particularly straight to Dante's bedroom. He looks back to Dante, not taking a step into the portal until Dante is through to the other side.]
( When he'd tried to reel himself back in β when he'd searched for ways to calm his mind and shake off the everything he felt, he'd latched onto a time when he was little and scared. When he'd burrowed his way beneath the sheets, bear in hand, sidling up to his big brother. He latched onto that because, in that moment, he felt safe. He knew that his brother would never let anything happen to him β would protect him from everything that upset or scared him and he took comfort in that. No matter how many times he bothered his brother, annoyed him to the point of getting into a physical altercation with each other, or drove him to the point of running off on his own, his brother was always there to keep him safe when he needed him.
So he stands there, eyes falling shut for a moment and, when they open, he sees the portal there in front of them β sees the way his brother waits for him and, smile so incredibly faint, he slowly nods before he starts dragging his feet towards it. )
Thanks.
( And into the portal he goes. Normally he'd go whee right now or make some dumb joke, but. He doesn't have it in him to at the moment. Just wants to be "home" here. )
[The Yamato's portals are more or less instantaneous, cutting through the fabric of reality as far as space is concerned and bringing both twins from the streets of Never Fade to the current quiet of Dante's bedroom in a single step. It lingers behind them for only a brief moment before closing.]
[Vergil studies his brother for a moment, trying to puzzle out what could have possibly happened. He's not hurt, not physically, but there's no denying that there's something a little off about Dante right now. There isn't any scent of alcohol on him, and nothing in his movements would suggest he's inebriated right now anyways, so it can't be that he somehow finally found himself over his limit. Never Fade is close to Cruel Summer, but it doesn't play host to any particularly dangerous wildlife, and even if it did, it's unlikely that it would result in this sort of behavior.]
I will not ask what happened, [he says, leaving it to implication that he doesn't believe he'd get much of a straight answer out of Dante right now and acknowledging that Dante likely does not wish to speak about it at much length at all,] but I will ask if you're certain you're alright.
( He's thankful for how quick and instantaneous the Yamato is with its portal opening abilities. Really, one of the other reasons why he'd wanted Vergil to come get him.
His room is as it always is just with the addition of a dart board hung on the wall now. A few darts lodged into the board, one in the center of the bullseye. Whether or not that was a shot made or simply the youngest son of Sparda jabbing it in there before heading out, well. Who is to say. But he stands there for a moment β looks over to his jukebox before he's slowly looking back over to his brother and catches the way the portal closes.
Blue eyes settling their gaze on Vergil, he takes a second to mull over how to answer that. )
I just... ( He takes a second. Sighs. Shakes his head then as he looks back around his room. ) ...yeah. I don't know. Could you stay a bit?
[Vergil's gaze does not deviate from his brother as he mulls over his answer, studying him closely in the event he tries to convince Vergil of something that can be proven to be untrue through such observation. But Dante doesn't brush him off. He doesn't elaborate on what's specifically wrong, but he doesn't try to act as though nothing at all has happened. He nods, agreeing to stay. Walking over to Dante's bed, Vergil sits near the foot, resting the Yamato beside him.]
[He does not push for Dante to talk right now about what happened or what's going on in his head. Nor does he try to engage in conversation in general, not even a comment about some bit of clutter he may find aggravating or critique on how he's made his bed. The most Vergil does is nod to the space beside him for Dante to also sit.]
( Smile lazy, he joins his brother there on the bed β drops himself down to it and just... leans against him. Shoulder to shoulder. Head dropping a little also. Blue eyes fall shut, breathing soft, and he swallows after a moment before he lets his eyes gently open, trailing his gaze across his brother's leg there. Ordinarily, he'd swing his own over Vergil's, but. He doesn't have it in him, too. Instead, he just sits there with him. Quiet. Until, finally, when he speaks, it's softly. )
You've always been better at it. ( He pauses, clarifies then. ) Being more devil than man. I mean... I like to think I'm ok at it. But sometimes...
( Licking over his lips, he sighs β gives a slow shake of his head. )
I got overwhelmed. Felt like I was slipping away from myself. When I came out of it, I thought of when we were kids. You know. When I'd get a nightmare and you'd chase them away because you're not scared of any monster?
( Another sigh, he leans against his brother a little more, gaze staring across his room. )
[Dante comes to rest against him, and Vergil remains an upright support for Dante to lean on. It's only once Dante leans more of his weight that Vergil shifts to wrap an arm around his brother. His hand comes up to run his fingers through Dante's hair in slow gentle strokes. He thinks it's better that than commenting on anything right away. It's a sensitive topic, and whether Dante would believe it or not, Vergil does not have the desire to provide an I told you so over something like this. So, he just strokes his brother's hair in silence for a few moments.]
I brought you home, but you're the one who pulled yourself back, Dante.
( Really, all he needs is his bear and this is just like when they were kids. Figures his brother canβt really take the compliment. Or at least doesnβt acknowledge it outright, but. He hopes he knows the truth behind it. That he needs him and always has.
The gentle strokes to his hair are appreciated though and they help in calming him down further. In having him feel more outside of his head and not so hyper focused on what he may or may not still be feeling. Heβs usually a lot better at it. At not letting himself slip up like that, but. Getting overwhelmed happens sometimes and, when it does, heβs always left feeling tired after. )
Doesn't matter even if you did, [Vergil says with a slight shake of his head.] You asked me to come get you. I wasn't going to leave you on your own or ignore that.
( Thereβs a sort of comfort in knowing his brother more or less put everything down and searched him out when he called for him. Again, heβs surprised he even saw the message to begin with, but. Heβs glad that he did. Glad that his brother was able to come find him and portal him back to his room here. Even to just be sitting here with him like he isβ¦ it means a lot and he feels more content. Safe. )
Hey. Youβre a pretty ok brother.
( Eyes falling shut again, he sighs as he lets himself relax there against Vergil. )
[Vergil smiles faintly at being told he's he's not half-bad at being a brother. Frankly, it's not an area that Vergil possesses a lot of confidence in. Even being a father sometimes feels easier than it is to be a brother, but that may be easily chalked up to just how similar Nero is to him. Dante, on the other hand, seems so different at times, it's almost a small wonder they're twins in the first place. So, Vergil often finds himself on the back foot, or otherwise stumbling about blindly.]
[But it has gotten a little easier as of late. Vergil's instincts don't feel as though they're running in such direct opposition to his brother as they once did.]
Are you hungry at all, or would you rather just rest?
[He doesn't suggest sleep directly. Not that Vergil doesn't believe if Dante were to let himself sleep right now, he wouldn't benefit from it, but Vergil also knows there's probably too much rattling around in his brother's mind on the whole to be too terribly receptive to it. He isn't entirely clueless when it comes to Dante's habits after all. Living in such tight quarters as they had initially had helped in that regard, at least.]
( Ordinarily, he'd never say no to a chance to get some pizza into him, but. Considering all of what had happened and how he currently feels, he's going to have a take a pass on the eating suggestion. )
Think I'm gonna have to go with the resting option. Might just spill my food all over me.
( Super unattractive for anyone to see. At that, however, he slowly lets himself ease back against the bed and just lays there, as he is, legs hung over the bed there while he remains there next to his brother. Arm draping itself across his eyes, he sighs and it's an emotionally tired one β lets himself gently find his breathing again. Even as he does, his other hand, the one closes to Vergil, gently holds to his brother, as if a lifeline or a means to reassure himself that his brother is here with him. )
Maybe I'm just getting old. Taking so much out of me.
[Vergil moves his arm out of the way when he feels Dante beginning to lean back towards the bed. He leans forward a little, resting his arms on his legs, giving Dante a bit of privacy as he just breathes even as he keeps a hand on Vergil still.]
That form is more powerful than what you're used to, [he says, resting his palms against one another.] And you spend the entire time you're in it fighting it, don't you?
[He lightly wraps his fingers around the back of his hands to fully clasp them together. Vergil can't necessarily speak to how the other, lesser form felt for Dante. For Vergil, it never felt any different to him than when he is in his human form, much as the same is true of his newer, stronger demonic form. One is the exact same as the other with no distinction between them. It is as much Vergil's true self if perhaps not still arguably more than as he is right now. But Dante's always held the devil within him to be something different, something separate. A combatant within him. So, Vergil would imagine fending off whatever it is about his demonic forms that he feels he must fight is likely easier in the lesser of the two forms. He's had more practice at it, but it's not nearly as much demonic power.]
You're not old, you're just pushing past your limits. [Over his shoulder, he looks at Dante. His expression is not soft, nor tender, but neither is it the angry, confused look he gave Dante again and again throughout their time in and atop Temen-ni-gru.] I'm not going to tell you what to do.
[While he doesn't know the exact reasoning why given the potential list of reasons, Vergil knows Dante won't listen to him regardless of what he says. It will just be a brush off or an argument, and possibly both if Vergil pushes just a little too hard.]
But what you're doing now isn't going to work forever. [Arguably, it's starting to fail now, but Vergil is not about to pile it on. Dante will surely do enough of that later if he's not already doing so now. Vergil puts a hand on Dante's knee beside him.] Take it from someone who already knows the consequences of denying what you are.
( Well leave it to big brother to clock it so easily. Thatβs how theyβve always been with each other though. A twin thing, maybe. Dante being able to read his brother like an open book just as much as Vergil can read him. Itβs infuriating sometimes but also appreciative others when neither really want to speak about whatβs troubling them. They can more or less take a stab in the dark and get it right every time. Even now. Some things donβt ever really seem to change.
He rolls on his side towards his brother. Lays there in silence, hand still there holding to his brother where he normally would his bear when he was little. When he finally comes to speak, itβs soft β vulnerable and almost as if itβs meant for no one else but Vergil to hear. )
Iβm scared, Verge. Scared of what could happen if I lost control.
( Maybe he wouldnβt really be able to hurt his brother much. But Nero? Anyone else? If he ever did, heβd never forgive himself and already has a lot he doesnβt necessarily forgive himself for as it is, regardless of whether or not it was really his fault.
He tells his brother this not because heβs looking for a lecture or a reason to brush him off. But because heβs his brother and heβs scared. )
[As Dante rolls onto his side, Vergil takes his hand back from his knee and rests it on the edge of the bed instead.]
[Reasonably, Vergil cannot tell him to be unafraid. In that form, while Dante is likely to fatigue himself quickly and return to his human form if he were to truly unleash the extent of his power, that would result in a significant amount of harm. Vergil doesn't think Dante could ever walk away from something like that unscathed. Even in a place like this where death never takes and counts even less to the most callous among them, it would change him deeply. His heart is simply too soft, too human.]
I know, I know... [It's said without any sort of blame or accusation behind it, just understanding for Dante's nature.] But you can never hope to truly possess control so long as you remain in fear of it, Dante. You know that...
[Such is the nature of devils. Strength and power are what matter most to them. A devil arm would never submit itself to a creature it viewed as lesser than it, which is what makes them impossible for humans to wield. The same holds true for Dante's demonic side. So long as Dante refuses to accept it and fears it down to his core like that, it shall rule over him one way or another. And it becomes a matter of when and not if it shall take more control for itself.]
[Vergil turns his gaze forward again as he mulls something over for a moment, uncertain if he should speak of it or not. In the end, he decides to say nothing. The less their father is involved in this conversation perhaps the better.]
( He's quiet as he lays there β as he listens to his brother speak and, after a moment, he shifts. Closer. Wraps his arms there around his brother's waist and buries himself against him from behind, much like he'd do when they were kids. Never mind Vergil is sitting up. He makes it work.
It's only after a moment that he thinks to speak. Soft. )
[Vergil places a hand on his brother's shoulder as Dante curls up closer to Vergil. He doesn't answer Dante right away, although with as close as his brother is, he no doubt feels Vergil draw the breath to answer. It's not that he wishes to deny the responsibility. Vergil does not carry doubts about his commitment to his family. His resolve remains firm. But there is something a bit different about having one of them so blatantly looking to him for protection like this that he doesn't know how Sparda did it, how Nero and Dante do it now. Because it's not a matter of lacking resolve or desire to fulfill that duty: it's that fear of what happens if he fails. Foolish as it is, he does wish Sparda was there to ask since it's not exactly a question he can pose to Dante (right now, at least) and certainly never to Nero. Vergil lets the breath go.]
I won't let it happen. So long as there's breath in my body, [he says, giving Dante's shoulder a light squeeze,] I won't let it happen.
[He can do nothing about the matter of Dante's sense of control over himself. Not without Dante accepting a degree of tutelage from him, and even that still remains up to Dante to do it. But he can at least pose as an obstacle to prevent the worst from happening should Dante lose control.]
[Everything stinks like hot, rotten blood. The very world around them is wet and fleshy. Sad that it takes him a moment to tell the disgusting flesh-constructs apart, but he feels the surge of another demon in his blood. This is the Qliphoth again. It's human blood he's soaked with, demonic roots wrapping around his limbs, holding him still. No matter how hard he struggles, how much he slashes at them, they twist and tighten until they can wrench his sword from his hands. Even his wings are trapped, an extra pair of limbs to suspend and pin him by.
Feeble human. Worthless. Helpless. Useless.
Nero looks up in time to watch Credo fall. His body hits the ground and the Qliphoth root follows, slurping up the last of the blood as he withers into nothing. Behind him stands that fucker Urizen, pacing closer, a dozen cold eyes piercing Nero with their gaze.
Cursed, the moment you were brought into this world in that wretched form.
He's not sure if it's better or worse, now that he knows. "Dad! Please! Stop!"
Who are you to claim my bloodline?
Well, fine, if that's how it's gonna fucking be. "I'll kick your fucking ass, Vergil! Listen to me!"
You are nothing but an insignificant, worthless pest. I will dispose of you like the insect you are.
He's not sure who he's looking at anymore as the eyes bore into him. Which voice he's hearing, laughing as the roots tug on his limbs. Whose hand grasps his right forearm and, as he screams and bones snap, begins to pull-]
[Nero awakens with a start, kicking so hard he nearly falls off the bed. He's drenched in sweat, even as he's tangled up in the sheets from an unconscious effort to kick them off. The whole room lurches around him, and then the movement echoes in his stomach-- and it's with a loud thump and a crash that he stumbles into his bathroom to be sick.
He can't care about the noise for a few minutes, until he's done. Then with the nightmare still flashing through his head and his body physically miserable, it occurs to him to worry that he might have just made a lot of noise. Is anybody even home tonight?]
Fuck. [Muttered to himself, under his breath. He feels fucking horrible.]
[Even before the sounds that followed Nero waking up, Vergil couldn't help but hear snippets of something, words slurred by sleep enough that Vergil couldn't understand them through the walls or doorway. But he didn't need to know exactly what Nero was saying in his sleep to gauge the growing distress. Vergil abandoned his tea and book in the kitchen with the hope of waking Nero up with a knock to his door, avoiding intruding on his space while also pulling him out of whatever bad dream was plaguing him. However, he's only just raised a loose fist to knock before Nero rips himself from his sleep and stumbles into his bathroom. Vergil frowns at the door, trying to piece together the sudden noise and trying to determine if Nero somehow managed to fall out of his bed until there's the unpleasant sound of Nero's stomach abruptly emptying its contents into the toilet.]
[He doesn't bother with knocking then, opening the bedroom door and letting himself in. Looking in the dark and what light filters in from the living room behind him, Vergil can see the mess Nero's made of his bed, the sheets half-pulled from the bed in a trail that would give away Nero's location if the sound hadn't already. He wrinkles his nose at the lingering scent of sweat now intermingling sick coming from the bathroom. Leaving the bedding there for the moment, Vergil only goes as far as the doorway to Nero's bathroom, positioning himself as he leans on the doorframe so that he cannot actually peer inside. As much as he wants to check on Nero a little more directly, he thinks it's better to give him a bit of privacy and avoid startling him as well. He waits until Nero is quiet before knocking lightly on the bathroom door to announce his presence, believing it unlikely with all that commotion that Nero even knew Vergil was in his room, much less this close to the bathroom.]
Nero... [He folds his arms loosely in front of himself, straining his hearing for any slight or subtle noise.] Are you alright?
[He doesn't have too long to wonder before the knock comes, a lot sooner than he expected it. He doesn't have long to wonder who he woke up, either, when Vergil calls for him. The sound of his voice is an unwelcome reminder of the awful dream, and a great swell of guilt follows after the shudder.
Either that or he's having chills on top of the rest of all this. Which is... probably accurate actually.]
Yeah. Fine. [He calls back in a completely unconvincing, weary voice. Flushing the toilet, he stands up and the sight of his own exceptionally pale, sweating face greets him in the mirror. Like, paler than usual. He looks like hell.
Reaching for a glass to sip some water, he remembers that he put it in with the dirty dishes this morning. God damn it. Unless he wants to drink out of his hands he'll have to go fetch another one, which means opening the door and facing Vergil. Realistically, though, he doubts there's any way he's going to get Vergil to leave under these circumstances, until he's satisfied that Nero is actually okay. Which he visibly isn't. And audibly wasn't, either, which he imagines why Vergil's out there to begin with.
With a sigh that he can't really explain, he opens the bathroom door and comes face to face with his father, looking pale and clammy and sickly.]
[Nero's answer isn't anything Vergil doesn't anticipate both in the words and its delivery, but Vergil leaves his full, final judgment as to the authenticity of the "fine" claim until after he's laid eyes on his child for himself. It's entirely possible that he is fine now that it's out of his system, but still needs a little more time to recover or otherwise feel comfortable opening his mouth and speaking. There's no pushing or challenging the assertion. At least not until the door opens, and even then, it's not anything Vergil says in words. He's very clearly scrutinizing Nero, and it becomes abundantly clear that there's nothing Nero can say that will mask how plainly terrible he looks. Especially once Vergil straightens back out and places the back of one of his hands against Nero's forehead, his frown deepening at just how warm his skin feels to the touch.]
[He glances back over towards Nero's bed before ruling that out entirely. His bedding will need to be washed.]
Go to my room, [he says nodding his head in the direction of Nero's bedroom door.] Move my trashcan in case you get sick again.
[Vergil doesn't tell Nero whether he should just sit or lay down, leaving that up to Nero for the moment and what will feel best for him.]
[His first reflex when Vergil reaches for him is to tense up, but he catches himself before swatting. It's that horrible guilty feeling again. He knows it was just a dream, knows Vergil hasn't done anything to him, but the vivid image of those fingers closing around his arm again makes his stomach lurch.
At least he already threw up so there's no question that he's not about to do it again.]
I- I'm fine. [It comes out unintentionally snappy, which only piles on to the guilt. So he tries very hard to sound calm and convincingly sure of himself.] Go back to bed. I'm just getting some water.
[Nero snaps at him, but Vergil merely rolls his eyes rather than wilting beneath the rough insistence that he doesn't need anything from Vergil. Regardless of how much Nero can make himself sound less like he isn't one stiff breeze from potentially falling over, Vergil isn't stupid. He can see with his own two eyes and by that touch to Nero's forehead alone that Nero shouldn't be up on his feet more than he absolutely needs to be right now.]
If you've the ability and intention right now to strip your bed and replace it with a fresh set of bedding as soon as you're done with that glass of water without any assistance, then by all means, [he says, gesturing with a hand for Nero to proceed. Vergil will wait right in Nero's room for him to return quickly with a fresh set of bedding and perfectly hydrated.] Otherwise, you may reconsider your response and just how stubborn you wish to be at this time of night by being "fine" in my room while I bring you what you need.
[God damn, is he always this longwinded? What is he even saying? Why doesn't he just take a hint and go away? But one glance back at his bed, sheets soaked through with sweat, is enough to make Nero relent. He feels terrible and the idea of fighting with clean sheets in this state is only slightly less appealing than the idea of lying back down on his.
Vergil's verbosity also wears him down, as he's stalking off to the kitchen before he's even done with his sentence.
Nero grabs a glass, fills it with water, and rinses out his mouth first and foremost. He's less inclined to actually drink any, even if he's parched, choosing instead to take a few small, wary sips. Then he stalks off to Vergil's room, sets the glass on the nightstand, and intends to sit there with his arms folded until he's fetched.
Two minutes later, shivering, he's stolen a blanket and wrapped it around himself, curled up horizontally on the bed. Like it's not enough to feel this shitty, cold, and achy, his heart is still thudding from the nightmare.]
[Vergil shakes his head lightly as he watches Nero stalk off. He follows him, but only as far as the door to flip on Nero's bedroom light before returning to his bed and stripping it himself. He makes quick work of it, balling it all together for the ease of carrying it into the laundry room, while Nero is rinsing his mouth out in the kitchen. Plopping them down in front of the washer machine, Vergil separates them out so they'll be washed properly and sets them going. Making Nero's bed again can wait until either after Nero's properly cared for and asleep once more, or in the morning. Whichever happens to come first.]
[When Vergil joins Nero, he doesn't come empty-handed, carrying with him a tray. He's brought a bowl of cool water with a cloth, a pitcher of more water for Nero to drink, and a glass of juice along with his tea and book that he abandoned earlier. This late and so soon after vomiting, Vergil didn't imagine Nero would be eager to try and get any food back in his stomach, but if he can at least try to be a little more hydrated and bring the fever down, he will hopefully get some more sleep.]
[He doesn't say anything further about how terrible and outright miserable Nero looks. There is no I told you so or other such remark at what a poor lie it was for Nero to claim all he needed was a glass of water. There isn't any further chastisement for being so stubborn. Vergil simply picks up his trash can, bringing it with him as he walks around to the opposite of the bed. He leaves it near the floor where Nero would not need to move particularly far to reach it. Setting his tea and book aside on that nightstand, Vergil sits near to Nero's head and places the tray on his opposite side before moving Nero to rest his head in his lap. Quietly, he says,]
Come here, dear child...
[He runs his fingers through Nero's hair gently with one hand as he dips the cloth into the bowl of water with his other hand. Wringing out most of the excess water first, Vergil presses it gently to Nero's forehead first, letting it rest there a moment before moving it along to his cheek and to the back of his neck. He holds it there until the cloth feels warm beneath his hand, taking it away again to dip it back into the cool water once more to repeat the process.]
I've set your bedding to wash, but you're sleeping in here tonight. [Vergil doesn't bark this as a command to Nero, but he's firm about it all the same. With as much as Nero is shivering and how tightly he's curled up, Vergil doesn't trust Nero to make it back to his bedroom on his own with or without his bed properly made for him.] We can see about getting you back in your own bed tomorrow after it's been made.
[Whether that's in the morning because Nero still feels unwell, or at bedtime because he's made a full recovery.]
[He's tired, but it's more exhaustion than anything useful. The idea of sleep still seems treacherous after the way he woke up, so he's in no great hurry to try again. Instead he tries mentally talking himself down from the anxiousness still gripping him underneath the illness. It was just a stupid dream. He's safe here. His arm is still attached, and Urizen is...
Nero's zoned out so much he's startled by Vergil's return, lifting his head to stare at him blearily. Somehow he wasn't expecting the whole kit 'n' caboodle on the tray. Then as Vergil sinks onto the mattress, he says what is easily the most affectionate endearment he's called Nero since the moment they met: he adds a "dear" onto the usual dry, literal "child." Dear child.
The juxtaposition between that and the awful, hissing, scornful voice in his dream is almost unfathomable. He flops easily in Vergil's lap and curls up, as though trying to fit all of him under the blanket and as close to his father as he physically can. So, this is what it's like when your father takes care of you when you're sick...
You're safe here. He cares about you. He won't hurt you. You're safe.
When Vergil goes to refreh the washcloth, he can no longer hold back a loud sniffle. Maybe Vergil will write it off as part of his illness. The little dribble of tears and the red eyes, less easy to write off.]
Shit. [A very profound utterance. But he has no idea what the hell else to say that won't just make it worse.]
[Vergil doesn't attribute much to the tears now. Or, at least, he tries not to speculate too much without Nero providing him with more of an explanation even while thinking of the usual suspect of a degree of frustration over needing to be cared for in the first place, and an obvious potential reason in that it's simply just how unwell he's feeling. But after those brief considerations, Vergil ultimately leaves it to rest without questioning Nero about it. Were their positions reversed, the last thing Vergil would want is to answer questions. Even the most harmless of questions would likely land like an interrogation. So, Vergil just moves his hand from Nero's hair to rub small circles between his shoulder blades over the blanket, leaving him to stay as snugly curled up with it as he happens to be.]
When you feel you can sit up again, I want you to drink some more. I've brought juice if you think you can keep it down. [Vergil adds that in case that did not register for Nero there's more than water at his disposal.] Otherwise, your water is still on the nightstand. Just a few sips, and then you may lay back down.
[He pauses before saying,] My Relic is also in the drawer. If you would like to watch something, you may use it.
[Vergil doesn't know how long exactly it will take for Nero to fall asleep again, but he doesn't imagine it will be immediately. His illness notwithstanding, whatever he was dreaming about was far from pleasant and probably still lingering somewhere in the back of his mind so soon after waking. If Vergil had to hazard a guess based on his own personal experience with nightmares, Nero wasn't likely going to want to chance another nightmare if he fell asleep with it on his mind still. So, considering Nero isn't exactly the biggest reader, watching or listening to something on the Relic may be enough to distract him if not to sleep, then at least to relax and rest.]
[Nero closes his eyes, both to blink the lingering tears out of existence and in an attempt to relax. He tries to focus on Vergil's kind touches, the fingers in his hair and the slow patterns they trace on his back.
He doesn't want to sit up. If he's going to be this miserable he'll just lie here all night, thanks, and at some point maybe it will go away. But that leads to the dilemma.]
I don't want to lay back down. [He swallows, debating if he should admit why. Maybe it will help expel it if he admits it?] I had an awful nightmare.
[Well, if those tears were in frustration over being unwell and needing Vergil to take care of him out of some foolish perceived inadequacy or childishness, Vergil certainly isn't about to point out the desire to avoid sleep is a bit childish. But he also knows better than to be that hypocritical himself even if Nero doesn't even begin to suspect that's the true reason Vergil is often the last to sleep and the first to wake. So, he doesn't draw attention to that, nor does Vergil point out that he's well aware Nero had a nightmare. He just continues rubbing Nero's back and applying the cool cloth to his skin to bring the fever down.]
Do you wish to talk about it?
[The phrasing of the question is purposeful. Vergil doesn't ask what the dream was about directly. He wouldn't be particularly amenable to discussing his nightmares even with Dante, who could certainly make educated guesses at their content, and he's never pushed Dante to discuss his. But Vergil also knows better than to assume Nero will be the same as either of them. He talks...more openly. And plainly. It's not the poetic circles Vergil meanders through, nor the deflecting humor Dante wields where some meaning lies beneath, but it's up to the listener to detect and understand.]
[It's possible for Nero that talking about it will be enough to put it out of his mind.]
[So, he leaves it entirely up to Nero if he wishes to say something, or simply let the matter be.]
I don't know. Can't tell if that'll make it better or worse.
[He does, actually, because putting it to words might be enough to banish the fucking thing from doing laps in his head. But how the hell is he supposed to tell Vergil what has him so upset when the answer is him? The dark, cruel, wicked side of him that Nero met before he ever knew his name or their relationship? The one who caused very real harm, least of all to Nero personally?
It'd be honest, but it also feels like he'd be confronting him all over again, and that's the last thing he wants to do when he feels this miserable-- to make Vergil feel miserable too.]
I don't believe I would call it stupid... [It certainly didn't sound stupid if it managed to catch Vergil's attention before Nero got up and vomited that something was wrong. Vergil opts not to point that out explicitly, however, allowing Nero to perhaps assume that conclusion is drawn from Nero wishing to avoid sleep because of it.] But whatever it may have been, it remains only a dream made by this fever.
[Regardless of whether what Nero dreamed is something he fears will happen or already has happened, the fact remains that it was something his feverish mind concocted and not his current reality.]
The only power it holds over you now is what you concede to it.
[That comes out a bit more flat than he would have liked it to. But, well... it's true. And he gets the feeling Vergil wouldn't think it was quite so stupid if he heard the details.]
It was all... stuff that happened. But it can't change now. Just decided to remind me about it for some damn reason. [Fever. Upset stomach. Ongoing insecurities about Vergil and the ripples of their relationship thus far.
Credo's death. Again. That's a nightmare he's had a hundred times in the past five years.]
Stupid how a dream can make you feel this shit. Or. Other way around, whatever.
[So, it was something that already happened? Vergil... Well, he wishes he could say that comes as a surprise. He assumes it to be a natural instinct one feels towards their child that nothing should have ever happened in their life that would lead to such dreams to ever be a possibility. But Vergil need only look so far as their first time meeting to find a potential source for nightmares, and he's not foolish enough to believe it to be such a rare exception in Nero's life even in the absence of so many details of Nero's life.]
[Vergil faintly hums his agreement to that sentiment.]
The past possesses an unpleasant ability to find its way into the present. Most often when it is liable to be the most distressing or otherwise inconvenient.
[He remains even in speaking. There's no stuttering to the circles on Nero's back, nor a hesitation in refreshing the cloth once more. Nothing reveals Vergil's internal world at that precise moment. But there is a guilt all the same that gnaws at Vergil in his chest, knowing it was a nightmare of the past. He knows it's entirely possible that the dream tonight had little or absolutely nothing to do with him, but that's irrelevant. The chance is not zero, and even if it was not tonight, who is to say it would not be some other night? And what is Vergil to do then? How is he meant to soothe his own child when he is the very source of his nightmares?]
And as you've said, it is not anything that can be changed. Even when it exists in the present, the past remains as it was. It's... [A maddening feeling of such helplessness for Vergil, quite frankly, and one of those emotions he previously did not need to contend with before allowing more of his own humanity to exist. But, to borrow Nero's vernacular rather than even beginning to explain something like that, which is largely irrelevant here,] Stupid.
[Vergil's longwindedness does have its advantages sometimes. Nero's relieved to find his voice... soothing somehow, at the moment. Maybe it's hearing it from this position, curled up with his head resting on his lap. Or maybe it's hearing it as it is now, in reality, free of the deep mutation that haunted it when he was Urizen-- the voice Nero can still hear gnawing at the back of his consciousness.
He focuses on the sound of Vergil's voice and his continuing gentle ministrations. Nero shifts a little, laying a little more relaxed, and one of his hands comes up to rest atop Vergil's knee. A solid little grip that he hopes feels affectionate.
But Urizen wasn't the only distressing image in his nightmare.]
[Vergil pays little mind to the hand on his knee. Or, at the very least, the hand on his knee alone does not stand out as anything particularly remarkable to him. It's the coupling of the gesture with that more relaxed state that stands out. He checks with a hand to Nero's forehead and then his cheek. It's an improvement. Nero is still warm, but he isn't burning up nearly as much as he was before. Vergil does not set the cloth aside entirely, refreshing it one last time. After wringing it out, he uses both hands to fold it neatly before pressing it gently to Nero's forehead and leaving it there, allowing the dampness of the cloth to hold itself.]
[Credo...]
[He's someone as part of Nero's life that stands out to Vergil compared to others. Not so much for what Nero has shared as it is how he's shared it with Vergil so far. In the beginning, when Nero shared bits of his life with Vergil and the people who had a hand one way or another in making him who he is, it was short bursts. If Vergil had to guess, it was a lingering wariness that likely drove Nero to share only a little at a time in starts and stops, gauging Vergil's interest in the topics and people of his life rather than simply going all in on the topic. But even as the stories have lengthened and the details have grown greater in number for others, Credo still seems to come out in those same short bursts. Vergil hesitates to put a feeling or particular reason behind it without Nero naming it himself, but he knows it's important, that Credo is important.]
I take it this time was particularly bad?
[Vergil dries his hand off, pressing it into his own shirt for a moment before running his fingers through Nero's hair again. His fingers on that hand are noticeably cooler against Nero's scalp after having held the cloth this entire time. He rests his other forearm on Nero, no longer rubbing at his back now that so much of his earlier tension appears to have left him.]
Yeah. [Because this time, Urizen killed him. And still, no matter how he dies, in his last moments Credo meets Nero's gaze with a look of distress and agony. It's a look he can interpret so many ways, but chief among them is "why didn't you save me?"
He subtly shifts again, pressing up against the cool cloth, then back against Vergil's smoothing touch.
It occurs to him vaguely that he's not really talked about Credo to Vergil. Mostly because he can't. He exists in Nero's heart and memory like a wound that never really healed, that still stings and even bleeds all these years later.]
He was Kyrie's older brother. Captain of the Holy Knights in Fortuna. He taught me... everything. He was my mentor when I was with them.
You mentioned that they likely would have thrown you out over some of your behaviors if it hadn't been for him.
[It was something Nero spoke about with hindsight clarity. Not that Nero was likely to have been completely unaware of the trouble he caused at the time, but it was most likely harder not to feel it to be a reflection of the Order being inflexible rather than anything he held responsibility for. While that's still not untrueβthe Order had their preferred ways of doing things and certainly refused to deviateβNero can likely now see where it may have been to his (and Credo's) benefit to keep his head down a little more and only cause trouble when it really mattered.]
Yeah. He channeled my anger in a productive direction. And he knew what I was worth. Knew even if I had an attitude problem, I was capable and could get things done. Nobody else would put up with me back then.
[He smiles a little in spite of himself. Looking back now, he doesn't envy Credo being responsible for him in his teenage years. On top of the explosive temper he could be sullen, bratty, arrogant, and a dozen other rancid moods depending on the day. Credo handled them all with stern grace and discipline, and never once backhanded Nero or throttled him no matter how much he probably had it coming. Even bent his own authority to make a space for Nero that suited him, because he knew he was worthy of the trouble.
He hopes that speaking his honest feelings about Credo won't make Vergil feel guilty or inadequate. But back then he had no father, no Dante, nobody else who even came close. Credo was the only one who didn't treat him like a nuisance, or a weapon to be used against the Order's enemies. At least, not exclusively. After all, Credo was the only one of his superiors who showed concern for his "permanently" wounded arm.]
He was like an older brother to me. The only man in the Order worth looking up to. Worth wanting to be like, and wanting to earn his respect.
[Knowing better as he does now, Vergil finds it hard to believe that Nero could really ever become something close to the man he now describes in terms of temperament. Rising that high in the ranks and to have any sort of influence to prevent Nero from being ousted, Credo had to have been as straitlaced and stern as Nero's implied before. That was never likely going to be Nero even if matters in the Order hadn't taken the turns they had. But the sort of person who could see past the superficial concerns others had about a teenager with a chip on his shoulder was absolutely something within Nero's reach. Frankly, Vergil would argue he's already managed to achieve that just by virtue of the two of them sitting here together now.]
What happened to him?
[Vergil asks the question as gently as he can. The consistent past tense that's been there from the moment Nero first mentioned Credo to now has not escaped Vergil's attention, and knowing what the Order tried to do... Well, it's not difficult to imagine the man's fate was likely abrupt and unpleasant. But Nero's said nothing of it to give it a more defined shape than that.]
[It's obvious that his discussions of Credo have been in the past tense. So he's fully expecting the question. It occurs to him then that he doesn't know how much Vergil knows about the Fortuna disaster. Nero hasn't spoken of it at all, but he'd referenced hearing some of it from Dante.
He counts on that being enough for right now.]
When they found out I was part demon... he turned on me. Tried to capture me on Sanctus' orders.
[He pauses to collect himself for the rest.]
Then he tried to save me and Kyrie. Sanctus murdered him. And I couldn't do a damn thing.
[There's a great deal that Vergil could say to that. Bitter parts of Vergil that regardless of his efforts towards being kinder and gentler towards humans are less charitable in interpreting the scenario as Nero presents it. Years of training and mentoring Nero, looking past his rough edges to see the potential in him, all thrown away in the name of what exactly? Blind zealotry? A refusal to accept Nero for what he is? How could he possibly claim to care about Nero if he was so ready to throw a child's life away at the behest of a superior? Unkind parts of Vergil meet the notion he tried to save Nero with skepticism, finding it difficult to believe that he recognized an error in his ways, in his chosen loyalty. It seems far more likely his questioning did not arise until his own flesh and blood was at stake. Freeing Nero would be no more than finding the right weapon to accomplish the same goal of saving Kyrie.]
[Vergil bites back such criticisms, but he cannot help but wonder and ask,]
Have you forgiven him?
[Vergil suspects he knows the answer already, but he does not understand it.]
[Nero's quiet for a moment as he considers the question. It's like he can feel the old wound starting to bleed again. Drip, drip, trickling across his skin like the water from the cool cloth on his forehead.]
I don't know.
[He hesitates, not because it's difficult to put these thoughts to words-- not when they've been on repeat in his head, over and over, for so many years. It's because it hurts to acknowledge them out loud, as though speaking makes them true.]
I never got the chance to ask him. If he thought he was doing the right thing. If he thought I was dangerous, or wrong, or if I just meant less to him than the Order. If he was sorry, or if he regretted anything, or if he knew what he meant to me... or if I ever really made him proud.
[His eyes close a little tighter.] He just died. Right in front of me. I wasn't strong enough to save him. And now I have to live with it all. All those questions he can never answer for me. All these complicated feelings and memories. Never really knowing what he thought.
It's like... a ghost. I don't know if it'll ever stop haunting me. Even if I can forgive him someday.
[Nero's answer takes Vergil by such surprise, he's not even certain that he heard it correctly at first. He takes a deep breath to ground himself, to listen to Nero's fuller answer without losing pieces of it in his own surprise. By its end, Vergil still says nothing right away, allowing the words to hang there in the air undisturbed. He believes Nero's answer to be the truth. It's clear how much Nero wants to forgive Credo, but the unanswered questions raises far too many doubts for that forgiveness to be given so cleanly. No, the reason for his silence is that Vergil is of two minds about the whole thing.]
[On the one hand, what Nero says does nothing to really alleviate Vergil's skepticism. Not to say that Vergil would have backed down entirely from the notion simply because Nero emphasized the man's positive traits, or even if he provided some evidence to Vergil that would dismiss the thought process of a less than honorable mentor whose affection had its limits in the end. But too much of Nero's own doubts mirror Vergil's in a way that can't be ignored. For Nero to so openly and plainly state that he bears his own doubts about what Credo truly thought and felt when Vergil knows him to offer so much more benefit of the doubt to the people he cares about... It's telling. That's the very least Vergil can acknowledge.]
[But on the other hand, Vergil also knows what it is like to struggle with such forgiveness. When he held so tightly to the belief that his mother had been too weak to save him, that she abandoned him in favor of his brother and died with him instead, he still had questions. Even with as angry as he was, as certain he remained about his decision to turn from his humanity as it served no purpose beyond acting as an inherent weakness, as much as he would have denied it had he ever been asked, Vergil still wanted to know why. Why did she not come when he cried for her? He was not keen to forgive her as Nero seems wanting to forgive Credo, and did not want the answers as a means of absolving her, but... He wanted that closure. As much as any child would to someone they believed was meant to protect them, but failed in a catastrophic manner. In a way that felt like a deep betrayal from which there is no healing.]
[He draws another breath, looking away from Nero even as Nero's eyes remain closed.]
I don't know what will bring you peace. [Vergil had the benefit of Dante to know more of the truth, to change his understanding and forgive Eva for not reaching him that day even as his hatred of his mother now settles as a regret, as something he can never seek forgiveness for himself. Nero does not have that luxury. There is no one that would have known enough to know Credo's mind in those final moments to bring him such clarity.] But I hope you are able to find it. Regardless of whether or not he deserves forgiveness, you do not deserve to carry his mistakes forever.
[He hopes so too, even though he doubts it. He certainly thinks he'll carry guilt about Credo forever. After all, if he was just a little faster, stronger, smarter, more experienced, he wouldn't have been captured by Sanctus. Credo wouldn't have needed to save him. Maybe he wouldn't have doubted him in the first place, never chosen to turn on Nero for whatever reason he saw fit to.
But no matter what happened that awful day, no matter how sick and betrayed he feels about it, he doesn't want to be angry at Credo. Can't think of him easily in those harsh terms. Not when he still remembers him as a younger man, a teenager himself, a knight recruit. Too old to need to humor or play with the little sister and her companion who pestered him, but always willing to-- even with a performative huff or roll of his eyes.]
Their parents... [He's not sure what's making him want to go into this too. That fond memory of Credo, perhaps.] Credo and Kyrie's mom and dad. They used to volunteer at the orphanage. They liked me. Thought I was funny. I think they might have adopted me, eventually, if they had the chance.
When they died, Credo took over raising Kyrie. And he kept an eye on me, too. Still treated me like one of the family. They were the only thing like a family I ever had. All of them.
[He tightens his jaw for a moment, then swallows.]
I let myself trust people. Then I get kicked in the face for it. Kind of a pattern my whole life. But it doesn't mean I want to stop trying. I just... keep wanting to be close to people, and hoping it'll work out eventually. Or hurt less the next time, at least.
[His fingers tighten on Vergil's leg, and he shifts to curl in a little closer with a shiver.]
[Things slot into place as Nero shares the memory of the parents he almost had even before Nero puts such clear words to it. Vergil's lips purse together as he realizes just how much loss Nero has experienced. His heart aches for him, for his child, and just how so shortly after birth, he came to know loss and grief. It makes more sense now why it seemed to come as such a revelation that his parents would have loved him beyond words or measure. Why he needed so much the reassurance that Vergil would not choose to act in a manner that would harm him even when doing otherwise was against his own self-interest. Why he felt so strongly to prove himself as strong and capable to Dante, to Vergil.]
I'm sorry, [he murmurs, removing the cloth from Nero's forehead.] My reasons for not being there had nothing to do with you.
[That's something Vergil knows Nero already safely assumed once he knew for sure that Vergil didn't know he existed until he was told that Nero was his son. Vergil gently presses the other, cooler side of the cloth to Nero's forehead.]
They do not matter, however. The simple fact remains that I should have been there. [Rather than returning to Nero's hair, Vergil's hand comes to rest over Nero's hand on his knee.] You should have known how precious and loved you are from the moment you were born.
[With no conditions placed upon any of it, and nothing more important that could possibly cause such a deep betrayal to happen again.]
[To the extent that he can in this position, Vergil's other arm holds Nero.]
But I have no power to change the past any more than you do. All I can do is ask that you trust me because there is no one more precious to me, and there are no promises more important than those I've made to you, my dear child.
[He didn't intend this to be an indictment of Vergil, or a demand to know where he was back then. He's almost inclined to say as much. But Nero hesitates when he finds Vergil's words resonating inside him, echoing against that dark, hollow place where Urizen's hateful words repeat, over and over. Like a salve on an ache, they work their way in and start to unravel the pain. It's what he wants, needs to hear to banish those lingering fears, at least for now. A promise that he wants to believe in, more than anything.
Nero never mentioned Vergil's role in his nightmare, but somehow they've stumbled their way around to reassurance all the same.
He balls his fist under Vergil's hand, and recognizes the awkward attempt at an embrace. It's a moment before he can say anything.]
I know shit happens. Especially with us. But... I can't tell you how much it means to me when you say that.
[His eyes open slightly, tiredly looking up at Vergil from beneath the washcloth.]
Maybe it's stupid, so soon, but... I do trust you. Just remember that, okay?
[Realistically, it's not anything Vergil didn't already know. Every step closer Nero has taken towards him has been a demonstration of trust in its own right, including the simple fact Nero was willing to afford him a chance to begin with. But Vergil feels the weight of that trust differently in having it spoken aloud, acknowledged and shaped into something nearly tangible as words often have the way of doing. It's not a terrible weight. It does not rest upon him as a burden. But it is noticeable, and it brings more clarity to just how strong his son truly is, to continue trying in ways that Vergil knows he and Dante had given up on when they were just children.]
[He nods a little.]
I'll remember, [he says, giving Nero's hand a light squeeze. Vergil allows it to remain an unspoken promise, but he does not want to fail Nero, to give him reason to ever regret placing that trust in him. Whatever it takes, Vergil wants to prove himself worthy of it even if Nero would likely say (aloud at least) that Vergil doesn't need to prove anything.] Although I will still risk that foul mouth of yours in telling you that I'd really like it if you'd consider being a little less stubborn, and try to drink something before getting some rest.
[He's careful not to ask Nero to sleep. Even if he's talked about the nightmare, vented some of the feelings and thoughts that manifested it into existence, Vergil isn't stupid. He knows Nero is liable to still be reluctant to actually sleep. But making an effort to relax to ride whatever this is out would be Vergil's preference for Nero.]
[Nero smirks at the request, but grumbles in his throat irritably all the same. He can definitely tell he's calmed down some, but his stomach is still a yawning, queasy void that feels like it got wrung out like a dishrag and then slapped back into his guts.]
I'm not stubborn. I feel like I got hit by a fucking truck.
[But he is awfully thirsty. So after a moment he makes the effort to slide an elbow behind him, sitting up enough to try and discern where his water is.]
[Vergil believes Nero when he says he feels he's been hit by a truck, but he meets the claim at not being stubborn with obvious skepticism even if he says nothing aloud to challenge that particular claim. Once Nero begins sitting up, Vergil loosens and releases his hold on Nero to allow him the movement under his own will and strength. If his hand hovers and lingers nearby for just a second to be certain Nero isn't feeling dizzy, Vergil says absolutely nothing of it. Nero's water remains on the other nightstand, and Vergil sits closer to it with the way Nero's managed to curl himself so close. He nudges Nero to sit up a little further, allowing him to lean and shift back just far enough that he's able to get the glass for Nero.]
The book you gave me, [he says as he passes the glass to Nero and sits upright once more.] I've read it a few times already, but... I suppose you could say sometimes one prefers the company of an old friend.
[It's the best way Vergil knows how to explain it. While he enjoys revisiting other books and poetry from other parts of his life, and sometimes is even so bold as to read a book published in the last century, there is a comfort in reading his favorites that cannot be replicated with any others. These past few weeks, he's felt he's needed such a comfort although he gives no such indications to Nero that's the case. As far as Vergil is concerned, this is a bit of small talk now before Nero makes an earnest effort to rest.]
[Nero attempts to get up on his own power, briefly, but finds such a drain of exhaustion weighing him down that he swiftly gives up. He stays upright long enough to let Vergil fetch his water for him, then carefully takes it. He slumps back at enough of an angle where he can try to drink without dumping it all over his face, still leaning as bodily on Vergil as the position allows.
He perks up a little when Vergil mentions the book. Glances, as though to confirm it's the one he bought. Then he looks quietly proud of himself.]
Is it good? The guy at the bookstore said he thought it'd be nice.
[Vergil doesn't mind the way Nero props himself up against him, and is frankly prepared to prop him entirely if need be. But he takes it as a good sign that Nero is only partially leaning on him in the end and able to hold himself up even a little.]
It is, [Vergil confirms with a nod.] It rounds out my collection of Blake, and is a good start to the others.
[Dante had taken issue with Vergil's refusal to really acquire much by way of things for himself. He had been here for nine months on his own, and hadn't taken the liberty to acquire his own books, contenting himself with borrowing copies from the library for as much as he needed or wanted. Frankly, Vergil still finds it a bit silly to concern himself with gathering books when he will not likely be able to take them with him when he leaves this place someday. Folkmore is, after all, just stop along the way back to the human world and by far not Vergil's final destination. But he won't deny that it's been...nice. To have copies that are his own again. Even if he finds himself in disagreement with Dante's logic overall, he can see some semblance of a point to it now that he's had a few more tangible things to call his own after being so long without beyond the clothes on his back and the Yamato.]
I'm surprised you didn't take the chance to read some of it before gifting it to me. You were getting quite good at making the books seem untouched at the apartment.
[Nero's been a little busted as far as reading Vergil's books is concerned for a while now, but it's only now that Vergil's chosen to acknowledge it openly.]
[Nero outright smiles, pleased at his success. Part of him wondered if the book might be kind of basic for somebody who reads as much as Vergil-- like buying the equivalent of a kindergartner's first poetry book for a lifelong enthusiast, or something.
He's taking a sip of water when Vergil slyly suggests he could have read it beforehand, and mentions his prior, secretive snooping around the books at the apartment. Now that they live in Vergil's room he's not touched them much. But it's not really that he was sneaking them...
He swallows gingerly.] I tried to. Same as I tried all your other poetry books. [He purses his lips a bit, then shrugs a little sheepishly.] Afraid they all make the same amount of sense to me. Which is, not much. But I've never been a real great reader when it comes to the fancy stuff.
[Vergil raises a slight eyebrow at the labeling of poetry as "fancy stuff." While he cannot really speak to how strong of a reader Nero is or is not, Vergil certainly doesn't find poetry to be something so out of reach for even a weaker reader to grasp some understanding. Poetry, after all, had its origins as an oral tradition rather than written. To that end, he asks,]
Out of curiosity, did you ever read them aloud or were you only reading them in your head?
Nope. [A beat.] Unless you count moving my lips while I read.
["Words pretty I guess" is most of what Nero has ever gotten out of reading poetry. Except he managed to find that one Blake poem while he was flipping through, it was short enough to read over it enough times to realize it would be a really nice, heartfelt spot to leave his envelope full of baby pictures.]
I wouldn't, [Vergil says with a slight shake of his head.] If someone only ever reads poetry in their heads and never hears the words aloud, they are missing important elements that help bring its meaning together. We tend to read quickly when not reading aloud. That leads us to fail in noticing subtle details in the poem's structure, and in losing that, we lose a significant amount of meaning and connection to the words. The specific rhythm of the words chosen, the line breaks, even the punctuation itself are important to the experience and expression of the poem.
[There's a slight furrow in Vergil's brow as he tries to think of how to illustrate his point perhaps a little more clearly.]
It would be akin to reading the lyrics of a song you like, but never once listening to the song itself. You would lose the rhythm of the words and vocal quality and technique of the singer as well as the instrumentation and musical composition meant to heighten the emotion and intent behind the lyrics. The words could still bear meaning just reading them plainly written, but you wouldn't experience it to the fullness that it was meant to be experienced.
[Vergil purses his lips at being called a nerd. He's not offended or necessarily put out by the ribbing. It's not as though Nero dismisses his point outright and leaves it at that. But... Well, it's one of the few things Vergil can confidently say that he likes and he's notably willing to indulge in often for purely the sake of it rather than for a function it may serve alone. Had he the access to books more consistently, it's likely it would have likely been among the few constants throughout his life. So, it's a bit hard for Vergil not to be a little displeased at being poked at over it, especially when it's been so rare that he has anyone with even a mild or passing interest to talk with about it. Even here in Folkmore, with his tendency to keep largely to himself, Vergil really hasn't found anyone to match his interest. Thus, Vergil doesn't quite bristle or snap, but there's a light color to his cheeks and he doesn't really return Nero's humor. Rather instead, he pushes right past it as though it wasn't said at all.]
Something to consider then, if you should choose to try to read them again.
Nero isn't trying to be dismissive though. He simply never thought about reading aloud, not least of all because he's not sure how to pronounce some of those words. The idea of being overheard fumbling through a poem uneases him more than being caught squinting and struggling ever did.
After a moment, and with another sip of water to bolster his courage, he makes a suggestion.]
[He hesitates to answer for a brief moment. It's not because he finds the idea abhorrent to the extreme end of things or mildly disagreeable on the lesser, but Vergil has a brief moment where he doubts it to be a sincere suggestion. Poetry does not appear to particularly appealing to Nero, and while he has demonstrated effort in reading through the books Vergil brings him that were among Beatrice's favorites, that is a bit different. Nero's mother is not here. He cannot form a connection with her in really any other manner than through Vergil's memories of her or by reading the books she loved. Nero does not need to rely upon such similar methods to know Vergil. He is right here for him to know and learn. Whatever investigation into Vergil's choices in literature remain far more superficial then, and it is of little consequence if it's not an interest Nero can develop for himself.]
[But Nero is honest perhaps to a fault, and it is not truly within his character to say anything he does not mean.]
[That hesitation briefly worries him, as though he might be about to catch some mockery for being childish. Maybe Vergil has better things to do than read to his adult son like he's a little kid, or would rather be left alone than bothered.
But that's chased off once he agrees, and Nero nods back, unintentionally echoing his movement.]
I have trouble reading 'em on the page. So maybe hearing them, they'll make more sense.
You may fare better with revisiting the poems in Songs of Innocence to start, [he says, nodding in the direction of his bookshelf where the copy the Folkmore bookfairy and absolutely not the other son of Sparda currently sits. Vergil doesn't know how much of the poems in the book Nero gifted him Nero actually read through, but he had plenty of time to read through that one while they were still in the apartment.] The poem you chose for the photos comes from that collection. They're meant to be similar to nursery rhymes.
[Thus neither as long nor complicated as Paradise Lost in their presentation and far more straightforward.]
They are where I began when I first took an interest.
[Nursery rhymes with super metal illustrations. Or... wait, was that that other book? Nero won't even take offense at the suggestion he should start with nursery rhyme-grade poems because he might understand them better.
He turns his head and blinks up at Vergil as though gauging him for something. Then he takes another sip of water before actually going for it.]
[His eyebrow raises, but Vergil doesn't ask aloud if Nero really means for Vergil to read to him now while he is generally feeling unwell and may be more prone to not retaining any of it. He only spares a brief glance toward the bookshelf before ruling that out completely. Nero's not likely to move off him enough for him to stand up right now. So, he nudges him to sit up enough that he can lean to the other nightstand where he placed his book down and collect it.]
[Well, what else is he doing, right? Sitting here spilling his guts-- figuratively, not literally again, thank goodness.
He does cooperate in moving as much as necessary to let Vergil fetch his book. Gives him a chance to lie back with his head on Vergil's lap again, holding his water glass atop his stomach and watching what liquid remains jostle as he breathes.]
[Vergil rolls his eyes slightly at the preach it to me, but it is in good humor with a slight smile. With Nero settled, Vergil opens the book. He mentioned reading it several times before, and it shows with how relatively quickly he's able to flip through to the poem of his choosing. Vergil adjusts his hold on the book to holding it with one hand to read while the other strokes Nero's hair. The poem Vergil chooses may not seem an obvious choice for one that he might like a lot given his temperament. And there are certainly plenty among those more critical of such naive joy that Vergil favors as well. But of those Nero may have more familiarity with, it's this one that Vergil bears a little more appreciation for these days.]
[Vergil knows the poem well enough that he truly does not need to look at the page the entire time to recite it, but he keeps his eyes there rather than looking to Nero. It's only when the poem is at its end that he looks back down to Nero in his lap after a brief moment to let the last of it settle.]
[Well... this one's easy. It's kids playing on a big, green, open field. Funny how the images come to mind so smoothly when he's not tripping over reading the words himself.
He's quiet for a moment after Vergil finishes, eyes closed. Then he opens them to find his father gazing down at him, almost expectantly.]
You have a good voice for that. [First thing that comes to mind for him to say, for some reason. He smiles.] I liked it.
[It's a bit of an odd compliment. Certainly not one Vergil anticipated receiving even if he's had plenty of experiencing reading poems. He says nothing about it though, brushing it aside more in favor of the whole point in reading it to Nero in the first place.]
I take it that means it made more sense to you than reading it for yourself?
[Vergil smiles lightly as he continues combing his fingers through Nero's hair, his amusement at just how quickly Nero is to clarify. His smiles grows a little more as Nero's able to find a more personal connection to the poem.]
I'm glad to hear it, [he says, closing the book and setting it down on the bed beside him.]
[Funny how contented he seems at just the fingers stroking through his short-cropped hair. Almost like a cat who's made himself comfortable on Vergil's lap.
He watches the book get put away and squirms a little.] Is that all I get? Just the one?
[If there's a vague look of surprise on Vergil's face, it's because he genuinely is surprised. Nero only asked for the one to be read, and Vergil assumed that to be the extent of his general tolerance.]
[It does not show in his expression, but Vergil's heart clenches a little at the request even with as much as Nero tries to play it off as not a particularly big deal. And perhaps it's not, but... Not that Vergil would necessarily want Nero to be ill, this is still something that they both missed out on as he grew up.]
Alright, [he says, a little quieter than he meant to be. Vergil picks the book back up, but before he opens it, he nods to the glass Nero is still balancing on himself in his hands.] Are you through with that?
[He'd almost forgotten about the water. Nero is about to hand it over, but he considers for a moment before sitting up enough to drain the rest of the glass. There wasn't all that much left, and he imagines it will make Vergil feel better about his hydration levels.
Once the glass is empty he hands it over and fails at not looking terribly pleased with this scenario as he lies back down, settling in and smiling up at Vergil.]
[Vergil takes his hand from Nero's hair as he sits up, accepting the glass when it's passed and leaning over to place it back on the nightstand. He doesn't say anything, or show it, but he's pleased with Nero finishing off the glass. Much as he would like to encourage Nero to drink even more than that, it's good enough for now and he needs his rest just as much. If he ends up feeling thirsty later or up for it, Vergil can always pour him more then. As Nero settles back in to his lap, Vergil opens the book again. This time, he opens the book to the beginning of the Songs of Innocence of the collection to start there. He glances down at Nero before he begins to read. Judging by the look on Nero's face, he's not certain how effective this will be for getting Nero to sleep necessarily. It seems likely that he will try to fight it even when it starts to reach for him. But he's still lying down at least, and likely to be still. Vergil looks at the book, but there's a smile there as he moves the book to one hand so that he may simultaneously stroke Nero's hair while he reads.]
[Nero settles in comfortably, perfectly content to let Vergil fiddle with his hair as he reads. Yeah, he was right. The guy really does have a wonderful voice for this. And he does enjoy the poems a lot more when he's not stumbling over things like verses, pronunciation of words he's unfamiliar with, or reading the whole thing and feeling like it went straight through him and didn't really land anywhere.
The water stays down, even if he still feels a little bit queasy and feverish. It's hard not to feel the ickiness lessen though, comfortable and warm, feeling the affection of his father. Here he is, a grown-ass man getting read a bedtime story by his dad. The thought occurs to him that this scenario is a first for both of them... and there's a little pang of regret that he never got the chance for this when he was a kid.
Oh well. Better late than never?
He mumbles some feedback for a few of the poems, nothing terribly profound, but appreciation for some imagery or another, or at least the way Vergil read it. It doesn't last too long though. About ten minutes in, Nero stops responding because he's fallen asleep.]
[After what happened that night with Dante, Vergil's gotten into the habit of carrying his Relic with him when he leaves the house. He still doesn't really use it, but he makes certain it's in one of his coat pockets before he leaves just in case. That does, however, mean that on occasion when it chimes and he's quick to dig it out from his pockets, it's more or less a false alarm. As it appears to be now when Dante messages him telling him how to enter their home. For a moment, Vergil thinks to just dismiss it. After all, who has ever heard of something as foolish as knocking a specific amount of times and waiting to enter their own house? And it's not as though Dante is liable to provide him with an answer if he were to take the time to write back and ask what he's going on about. At least, not a satisfying answer that would give Vergil a reason to play along with the foolish request in the first place.]
[But as he grumbles to himself and pockets his Relic, Vergil ends up giving it a little more thought. It occurs to him that perhaps this is Dante's silly little way of making sure Vergil is still actually bringing his Relic with him and still paying attention to it when he's out and about. He does have a tendency to make little to no acknowledgement of messages he might receive.]
[...So, against his better judgment, Vergil stands outside the front door and checks his Relic for the foolish little set of instructions once more. Rapping on the door with a knuckle three times, he pockets the Relic and begins a silent count to himself. Once he reaches twenty, he opens the door and steps inside.]
Dante? [he calls out as he closes the door behind him.] Why exactly am I knocking on my own front door?
[Oh, it had better be for an important reason like the one he speculated and pondered upon, and not just for his own amusement to see what he could make Vergil do.]
( Hark! Is that a brother actually doing what he asks for once? For a second, he blinks β wanting to make sure he actually heard the knock right, but. When the other two come, thatβs when he barks a laugh to himself and shakes his head. )
Well Iβll be damned.
( Some days he really is.
But! Knowing he has about twenty seconds before his brother wanders his way in and, inevitably, asks what kind of tomfoolery heβs up to with sending him a message like that, he makes haste in his finishing up what heβs been doing in the kitchen whichβ¦ looks like a mess, really no other way of putting it. Heβs sure Vergil is liable to come close to blowing a baby gasket at the sight, but. Heβll clean it up. After.
When Vergil finds him, thereβs dirty pots stacked one on the other littered about the kitchen countertops along with various open bags of ingredients heβd needed to make the surprise heβd been cooking up for his brother. Oven mitts on, he turns to face his brother when he hears him, beaming and covered in red. Tomato sauce, for once instead of blood. Glass dish of lasagna held between his hands. Holding it up proudly then, he smiles. )
[Vergil stands there on the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, staring for a long moment even if his gaze does not linger on any one thing. It's technically not his kitchen. His kitchen is back in Satori Hills and probably belongs to someone else by now. Assuming it technically exists at all anymore given that the apartments themselves seem to change to what's needed by the new tenant. Either way, this kitchen is technically far more shared than that one because it was never his alone. And to some extent, Vergil's gotten better about sharing the responsibilities for meals a little more, particularly with Nero. But he still feels a degree of ownership over it, and still maintains it to a particular standard that anyone who enters it is implicitly agreeing to maintain or face the consequences. Vergil's eyes trail over the wreckage before making their way back to Dante, who also stands before him a mess.]
So you did, [Vergil says in a tone and pitch that absolutely belies just how much effort he's exerting to restrain himself right now. Vergil looks at the lasagna in Dante's hands as he calmly reviews why fratricide is a poor choice and it would likely be a deep, disappointing blow to Nero. Because the lasagna in his brother's hands is a nice gesture. It is a very kind, considerate gesture. Dante doesn't really cook all that often, but he went through the trouble of cooking something for Vergil. For no immediate or obvious reason. And he's clearly proud of the resultβas he probably should be for how little Dante tends to cookβand smiling at Vergil with all of his good intentions.] It...smells nice.
[Which isn't a false compliment even if it's a little on the weaker end while Vergil emotionally grapples with the state of the kitchen. He draws a steadying breath.]
( A chuckle then, he shakes his head as he brings the hot dish over to set on the table over a tea towel he laid down. Wouldn't want to get the table too hot after all! )
C'mon! Try some! I've been workin' my butt off in here.
( The lasagna itself looks... fine... save for the slightly burned edges, but. Definitely edible. Rich tomato sauce dripping between thick noodles stuffed with meat and a couple other vegetables β spice to taste! He proudly shows off the dish with his hands before he makes his way over to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of red wine that he sets down beside the lasagna on the table there. )
And something to drink, too. I thought it might go well with it.
( Hands on his waist, he stands there and waits rather expectantly for his brother to sit down and try some, utensils already laid out there on the table along with a glass. Just, you know. Ignore the tomato sauce smeared across his cheek and forehead. Don't ask. )
[As Dante steps away to place the lasagna down, Vergil pays one last look to his kitchen before following Dante over to the table. Standing there, he watches his brother dart back to the refrigerator for the wine he had been chilling.]
Youβ [His brow furrows a little, but it's not an angry one. It's the face Vergil always makes when he is actively trying to process something before him, and needs a moment to assess and take everything in.] You really put a lot of thought into this...
[He doesn't mean to sound so surprised necessarily. Vergil knows his brother, and he knows while Dante may have the tendency to act as though he doesn't know much of anything, he is exceptionally clever. He would not be able to be quite so improvisational in a fight if that were not the case, especially when going against an opponent he's never faced before. Nor would he be perceptive enough to read Vergil's mood with as little as Vergil often provides by way of hints about it. It's also not really that surprising Dante put so much thought into something he put his mind to doing. Even if he did end up with tomato sauce smeared across most of his face, and Vergil can't be too certain there isn't also some pieces of cheese somehow stuck in his hair.]
[But still...]
[Vergil draws a breath and his lips part to say something, but he hesitates for a moment as he looks from the dish of lasagna back to his brother. Slowly, he sits down in front of the place setting meant for him.]
You really just...did this. For me? Without any other motive other than you...wanted to do it?
[Vergil isn't trying to accuse Dante of being otherwise inconsiderate, nor is the question meant to imply Dante never thinks of Vergil. There's a few books on Vergil's bookshelf in his bedroom, and a family portrait that highlight that not being the case in the slightest even if Vergil doubted his brother. But this is a lot of effort. Lasagna is more complicated than it seems on its surface, and Dante could have just as easily used his Lore to summon a premade one that all he had to do with put in the oven and claim he made it himself. He also went to the trouble of finding a wine to match, and setting the table in advance.]
[Which is why he raised the question of what exactly the occasion happens to be whether there's something special that Dante wants to mark, or he has something he needs to tell Vergil and otherwise make up for (beyond the disaster of the kitchen, of course). It is so much effort for no particular reason.]
( Hell yeah he did. Itβs not everyday the youngest son of Sparda slaps an apron on and lets loose in the kitchen and while not a special occasion for his reason doing this, still isnβt everyday one catches him like this. Hell, he canβt even really remember the last time he did something like this for himselfβ¦. probably never. Unless heating up pre-packaged food counts.
He waits for his brother to get himself comfortable β hands clasped behind his back then with blue eyes sparkling with both curiosity and a certain sort of anxiety over whether or not heβll like any of this. He knows the suspicion is there β that heβs probably wondering what led to his wanting to suddenly do this out of the blue, but. He just stands there and waits, smiling like when they were kids and he was waiting for Vergil to give into his wanting to play with him.
Chuckle on his lips, he leans across the table some, bracing himself on a hand as he plucks a knife up and starts to cut into the lasagna there. )
Canβt a guy just wanna do something for his brother and not want something out of it? Weβre not eight anymore.
( Debatable with how they get sometimes, but.
Cutting into the lasagna, tongue sticking out a little with his concentration, he shovels a good sized portion out of the glass dish and plops it down on the plate there in front of Vergil, splashing some of the tomato sauce as he does. A chuckle, he cringes. )
Whoops. Heh.
( With the pad of his thumb, he brushes away the splash of sauce that got him on the cheek and licks it off, making a pleased little noise as he does before he eagerly points to the dish. )
That right there is culinary art.
( Another chuckle, he straightens himself up and stands there, lips pressed together as he anxiously waits⦠for his brother to give it a try. )
[Culinary art might be a bit of a stretch, but Vergil is willing to let it slide without challenge. Somewhat clumsy plating aside, it doesn't smell offensive and the majority of it is golden brown rather than charred. It's certainly more than Vergil would have assumed his brother was capable of if he's honest. But that's a common mistake when it comes to Dante, isn't it? Underestimation that leads to him getting the element of surprise.]
[Picking up his fork, Vergil cuts a bite from the slice that Dante has plated up for him. He purposely takes from a portion of the slice that's in the interior to avoid any...crispier pieces along the edge for now. Truthfully, he could do without the expectant staring. Well, perhaps not staring, but certainly watching. Vergil understands his brother is perhaps a bit anxious and wants the dish to be well-received, but there's a limit to how closely Vergil would prefer he's watched while he eats. Hopefully it's just for this first bite. Vergil blows on it gently before eating it to avoid scalding his mouth and give it an overall fair chance.]
[...To Vergil's further surprise, it's not just not bad, it's competently made and quite good. The layers of meat sauce and cheese harmonize well with the spices Dante's put into it, and the veggies while tender make it a heartier bite than it would be with meat alone. He hums quietly, pleased with what his brother has managed to do, but waits until he's swallowed the bite before offering such direct feedback.]
You did well, Dante. I like it.
[Coming from anyone else, that would probably seems a touch insincere or like they were not particularly enthused. But that's high praise coming from Vergil.]
( At that, he claps his hands β bark of laughter leaving him. )
Hot damn!
( A punch to the air, he grins β hand up with a few nods. )
Thank you, thank you. Let it be known that I, Dante, son of Sparda, not only slay demons, but slay in the kitchen as well.
( Chuckling and beaming all proudly there, he reaches over for the bottle of wine then and cracks that baby open, pouring his dear brother a rather generous amount there in the glass he has set out for him because, you know, it pairs well and all. Or so he figures. )
[Vergil rolls his a little at the theatrics from Dante, but even if he wouldn't necessarily acknowledge his faint smile, Vergil doesn't rain on Dante's parade by telling him to knock it off or not to get so ahead of himself.]
So, what you are saying is you have no excuse next time I ask for your help in the kitchen, [he says as Dante pours the wine. That...is more than Vergil would have poured for himself. But again, he says nothing of it. Even with as little as Vergil tends to drink, it's nothing the demonic metabolism won't be able to quickly burn off before it has any real effect.] Is your plan to just watch me eat, or did you intend on sampling some of your work for yourself?
( He seems almost flabbergasted that Vergil would think otherwise. Wine bottle set down, he puts a hand on his waist then, chuckling softly. )
You can wrap it up in tin foil and take some with you when you go to do... ( this is where he waves a hand around ) ...you know. Whatever it is you do around here. Have a snack ready on hand! See? Look at that. I'm thinkin' ahead.
( To which he gives his temple a few taps with the tip of his finger. )
Try not to pass out from the strain of it, [Vergil teases lightly.] But you don't really expect me to be able to eat all of this on my own, do you?
[As much as Vergil's willing to let Dante be proud and excited of his work here, Vergil is not willing to dedicate three square meals a day to lasagna in order to get through a pan of lasagna before it becomes...off. Not that Vergil thinks a food-borne pathogen would really be enough to strike him down, but the taste sure as hell wouldn't be pleasant.]
Besides, if you're giving it to me, does that not mean I decide if I wish to share it or not?
[Vergil glances at his own shoulder to be certain there isn't any transference of tomato sauce or any other such mess to his shoulder. Fortunately for Dante, he gets to live to see another day. He pushes out a nearby chair out with his foot.]
At least sit down and stop hovering then if you're not going to eat any now. [It's weird, Dante.] Unless you'd rather start undoing the damage you've done to my kitchen.
[Vergil fixes Dante with a look when he says he'll take care of it later, wordlessly warning that later better come before the end of the night. Waking up in the morning to find the kitchen still the same would be a quick way to get on Vergil's bad side even when considering the lasagna.]
Just make sure the dishes are clean, and you've wiped down the counters and stovetop.
[He leaves it implied that he'll handle the rest at that point. The lasagna might not be able to spare Dante from Vergil's wrath if the kitchen is still a disaster come morning, but it is at least enough to get him out of having to clean and organize it entirely to Vergil's standards at the very least. As Vergil cuts another bite of lasagna off from his piece, he changes the subject.]
Dare I ask how you've been keeping yourself busy these days aside from exploring the culinary arts?
[Not that he hasn't seen Dante around at all, but he did go from a brief stint of keeping to his room before spending more time outside of the house. Thankfully after his little slip-up not that long ago, he hasn't resumed cooping himself up, but it does mean it's been a while since the sons of Sparda were home at the same time.]
( Plucking a fork from the table, he looks it over as he considers his brother's question, smile faint on his lips. )
Seeing what this place has to offer in terms of extracurricular activities.
( Twirling the fork around a couple times, he leans over the table and stabs it in the lasagna, helping himself to a piece which he brings to his mouth with the help of his other hand there beneath it so as not to accidentally drop any. )
You been to the swamps around here? They've got some pretty wild things to dance with there.
( Shoveling the serving in his mouth, he chews happily, dropping himself back down into his seat as he smiles to his brother. )
[Vergil shakes his head a little as he's swallowing his bite of lasagna.]
I haven't ventured to Exile at all. [He's heard enough tell of it to not want to venture too deep into that region.] But I have heard the swamps are particularly dangerous.
[Vergil is not referring to the creatures that wander the area, however, so much as the mental effect the region appears to have on those who enter.]
I'll say. Whole lot of dangerous swamp babes around there.
( Waggling his eyebrows, he chuckles then, clearly teasing but also not really because... he's encountered a couple of those in the times he's wandered his way to a particular bog. Nothing he couldn't handle and usually tends to make it out with little to no scratches. Aside from Cruel Summer, Exile really is one of the only other places he's found with a bit more of a challenge to take on when dancing with the creatures there.
Reaching over, he takes another small forkful of lasagna for himself β shovels that baby in as well before he's settling back in his seat once more. )
Keeps me busy, I guess. It's not like back home where I usually get someone comin' to me for somethin' or getting calls on the phone about a job needing to be done. I kind of miss it sometimes.
( He felt he had more of a purpose back home. Here? He's not so sure. )
[As Dante speaks Vergil has another bite of lasagna, and simply listens. Although he still wrinkles his nose at the mention of "swamp babes." He does not ask because he does not wish to know.]
[Vergil is not certain if it's particularly surprising to hear Dante acknowledge he misses devil hunting. On the one hand, Dante's never done well with being still. And it's not as though Vergil has somehow allowed for his skills to atrophy since coming to Folkmore. He's sparred with Mizu countless times since nearly the beginning, and while that does not exactly translate to what he needs to defeat a demon, it's been wonderful for honing on his technique if nothing else. ABarring that, on occasion, he found himself in the fighting pits or putting down monsters that may manifest themselves as a result of trials. And now he has the opportunity to train Nero and put his skills to a greater test by sparring with Dante. Vergil does not have a reason to really seek out more than that. Not like Dante seeking out creatures in Exile.]
[On the other and arguably more important hand, Vergil would think the lack of violent responsibilities would come as a bit of a reprieve for Dante after... Well, it's been a few decades, hasn't it? At least since they were eighteen. Maybe longer. Vergil remains on-guard himself even a year later with so few threats, but he would be lying if he said he didn't find some measure of relief in truly knowing there was nothing hunting him for the first time in his life. There's a semblance of peace that comes with it, anyways. He would think Dante would feel the same way, and whatever thrill he might seek from his work would not bear much weight in light of that.]
[He looks at Dante with a furrowed brow, confused as he concludes that no, it actually is surprising to hear Dante say that. He would think this is what Dante has probably always wanted from the beginning: a mundane life without the shadow of their father's legacy looming over him. He gets to be himself.]
...You miss fighting for your life on a regular basis? [He wrinkles his nose again with a shake of his head. As he gets another bite of lasagna, he says,] I would think you would leap at the chance to indulge in other facets of your life that have been neglected because of your duties. After all, you have made it clear you feel strongly that I essentially do as much.
[Vergil's almost certain Dante is going to claim it's different given their circumstances. And maybe it is, but Vergil doesn't think it necessarily means he's wrong to draw a comparison and reach such a conclusion.]
( Smile on his lips, he chuckles, shake of his head to follow. )
I said kind of. Itβs a figure of speech. Donβt take it so literal, Verge.
( Itβs just familiar and something heβs grown used to, if even unwillingly, over the years. Routine as they say. Even when heβd followed after his brother to the underworld, he knew there would be demons waiting to try their luck on the sons of Sparda. Foolish on their part, like always, but just another day that ended in y. Only difference was, he had his brother alongside him instead of the others.
It sucks they had to leave Nero behind as they did, but. He knew theyβd figure a way back to the human realm. As if anything or any place could ever really defeat him or his brother. At least Neroβs here now, justβ¦ away from Kyrie, his friends, and the orphans, which he knows is hard for him sometimes. To have the chance to be with your father finally but unable to be with your lady loveβ¦ gotta hurt some days. He knows it does β has seen the kid get gloomy about it. Talk about a double-edged sword.
Licking the sauce off the fork, he shrugs. )
Also, I did leap. After you. Whether or not this place is permanent, youβre here and thatβs all Iβve really wanted.
( To have his brother back. )
If you werenβt, I wouldnβt have got to make you this super amazing lasagna that is probably your favorite dish ever now.
( Teasing some, but. Heβs also quite proud that Vergil likes his dish. )
[Vergil says nothing right away, contemplative as he stabs a piece of meat that managed to flee from its layer and pushing it in some of the sauce on his plate idly. He had been here for nine months beginning to work towards ten on his own before Dante arrived. It wasn't as though Vergil somehow didn't miss his brother in that time, and he certainly wished Dante would be one of those bright lights falling from the heavens rather than toiling away in the Underworld still, but... Well, it was a bit like how accustomed Dante became with his devil hunting. Vergil had gotten accustomed to being on his own. He didn't miss Dante every waking minute of every day because his absence felt normal. Expected.]
[So, in truth, it's been more disquieting for Vergil to have his brother around than not. Which Vergil feels immense guilt over admitting even privately just to himself, but it's the truth. He knows more of how to be a father to Nero than he knows to be a brother to Dante. He has the example of Sparda before him and while not a perfectly clean slate, it's at least not a long of a history as what lies between brothers to give him a starting point with Nero. He has no such equivalent with Dante. Only how they were as children, which Vergil struggles to find applicable considering neither of them are the children they used to be.]
[And maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's why Vergil struggles so much in knowing how to be Dante's brother again. Dante isn't the snot-nosed little brat who could always make Vergil laugh despite his hot, angry tears and self-serious temperament. He isn't that kid who never seemed to worry about consequences, chasing after what was fun without a care in the world. For all the accusations Vergil gives Dante about being immature, he grew up. He changed. Vergil did, too. And yet, they still so often try to treat each other like those little boys that used to beat each other bloody, but would have done anything for his twin. As though no time at all had passed.]
[Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. They get stuck when it doesn't, and both seem to lack ideas of how to recover from it. Vergil can't and won't speak for Dante, but he knows he walks away from it disheartened when that happens. Even when it feels earned because of the choices Vergil made or Vergil can recognize Dante isn't the child he used to be and someone he still has so much work to do in getting to know again...]
[Dante tells Vergil time and time again not to worry and claims to have it all under control, and probably thinks he's doing Vergil a kindness in doing as much. In his mind, he likely thinks that he's somehow freeing Vergil up from worry and responsibilities that could somehow distract from what he needs or wants. But the reality is that Vergl feels brushed aside. And that's the rub. Dante says he needs Vergil, wants him around, but it feels like every time there's that possibility to be let in? Dante pushes back. Not usually in any sort of anger, and certainly not with hostility even when Vergil does push a button, but... He pushes back all the same, and Vergil finds himself at a loss with what to do. Sometimes he gets in his head, wondering if he did something wrong. Other times, he stews in a mild amount of frustration of wanting Dante to let him be his big brother again in ways that matter and count to them now and not the past.]
[A question rests at the tip of his tongue, but Vergil recognizes it as selfish, which means it has a greater capacity to be hurtful. So, he doesn't ask Dante if he has any regrets about following him into the Underworld, into Folkmore. Looking for such reassurance seems childish anyways, and what sort of foolish question is that in the first place? Of course Dante would have regrets. Maybe not enough to make him choose other than as he did, but there were things about home he must miss beyond his work.]
You would have enjoyed aspects of the false reality the Fox attempted to deceive me with then.
[Eva never died, brothers were never separated, and Nero grew up with his parents, his family. Sparda was still gone within the illusion, but maybe the Fox felt it would have been too obvious a lie to have given Vergil that much. It perhaps would have seemed too ideal to be tempted by it in that circumstance, but Eva's mere presence was ultimately enough for Vergil to mistrust it.]
I suspect because both of you are here in Folkmore that you and Nero were away in the illusion, but from all that I could observe before Mizu and I were able to leave, we had never been separated from one another. [He sets his fork down, the piece of meat ultimately untouched.] She seemed to believe such ideals could lead me astray if left to implication, but I have the both of you here now and that will not change even once we leave this place.
I have little need for a pretty lie in comparison.
[He glances at Dante then, drawing a breath and releasing it.]
Although I will not pretend I felt nothing upon seeing her again.
[He doesn't bother clarifying that it was their mother. He trusts Dante can put that together for himself.]
( Gently stabbing his fork into a napkin, he slowly twists it about back and forth while staring to it, smile barely a ghost of one there on his lips. )
Yeah. I miss her, too.
( He always had and always all. Just as he had with Vergil before he came back as he did. Honestly probably a good thing he didnβt end up on some train ride because heβd find it more insulting to puppet some fake version of his mother than something heβs wish was true. Then again, heβs had years and years to grieve and mourn her, though it doesnβt diminish how he still misses her. )
I still get nightmares of that. Even at this age. Kind of dumb, huh? Youβd think thatβd pass with time.
( Theyβre never as bad or as frequent as the first decade or so after it happened, but. Theyβre still enough to jolt him awake suddenly β sometimes to the point where heβs not sure where he is the first few seconds upon waking, but. He still gets them. Different pieces and versions of them, and he hates them every time.
Napkin all twisted up there in his fork, he pulls it away and smiles a little up to Vergil then. )
Sheβd be proud of you, you know. How far youβve come. I know you might balk at the thought of that because of the past and all, but. You overcame it all in the end and I think she always knew you would.
[He says nothing to the nightmares, but noticably, Vergil's eyes avert ever so briefly. Vergil finds no fault in Dante sometimes dreaming of that day when they, unfortunately, have that in common. It bears too much weight on them, on the man and devil they became, for it not to return on occasion even if not to the intensity and frequency it had shortly after it happened.]
Maybe, [Vergil says faintly, eyes dropping to his plate for a moment. It's less a matter of doubting Eva's capacity for forgiving his sins or to love him in spite of what he became, and more Vergil doesn't know that he would let her. He could only face the version of his mother in that alternate reality because she had no knowledge of who he is or what he has done. That wasn't her reality, and thus, it remained a non-issue in whether or not she could look at him with love and pride. So, for as fake as it had been, it was simpler, too. And that was probably why it was meant to tempt him. Vergil couldn't break his mother's heart like that. Not now. He wouldn't be able to bring himself to face her. But there in that false reality? It was of little risk to him. She loved him, and he did not need to think of any reason why she shouldn't. Leaning forward and hunching a little, Vergil brushes it aside and picks up his fork again for another bite of lasagna.] It doesn't really matter. She isn't here.
[And speculating is pointless. Maybe Dante is right. Maybe Vergil is. They will never know either way.]
( Quiet, he looks down to the napkin again β allows himself a brief smile before he gives a sigh. )
I mean... she is to me. I carry her with me. In my heart. I carried you, too.
( Until he had him back in his life again. He still does, just. It's different now. Since he's here. A different sort of carrying him within his heart. Then, perhaps a little more softly and almost shyly, the words to leave him are ones with a sadness to them. )
And dad.
( With the pad of his thumb, he presses at the corner of his eye β stops the tear there β and stands then, blowing out a dramatic sigh as he rolls his shoulders and swings his arms, fork dropped to the napkin. )
You really like it? ( He stares to him almost a little sheepishly. ) You know it's my first time making that, right?
[It's not the existence of Dante holding any sort of positive regard for their father that pulls Vergil's gaze back to his twin. Regardless of how much in the forefront Dante's resentments towards Sparda often is, Vergil knows by virtue of his own previously held resentment towards Eva that it's not so straightforward as that. Resentment like that is only born after a great love and admiration was betrayed, but it does not inherently mean the total destruction of it. For as much as Vergil resented Eva for not saving him and when it deepened all the further to discover his brother lived, no amount of anger or hatred towards her could unmake his contrary feelings. But Vergil is surprised to hear Dante acknowledge it aloud, particularly to him of all people.]
[He looks back down to his plate again, expression slightly pinched as he holds back the swell of emotion that Dante dances away from in his own way.]
[Oh, Vergil is angry and remains so when it comes to using their mother as she had been during the trial. But he misses her. He misses her, and he misses their father. And he hates that there is still yet this foolish, childish wish that somehow their family could have somehow come out of everything unscathed. Vergil draws a breath though because it is as he said to Trish. He has no desire to dwell in the past, to hopelessly wish for things that cannot be. Their parents are dead, and they are not the children they once were. The only thing there is now is what's directly in front of Vergil, and that's where he'd prefer to put his energy.]
[Vergil smiles faintly at Dante.]
I wouldn't be able to tell it was your first time making it. [Vergil taps a bit of the burnt edge on his piece as with the prongs of his fork and lightly teases,] Maybe a little less time in the oven and try to wear less of it next time, but you did well, little brother.
( He's unable to help the swell of pride he can feel in his chest at his dear big brother liking his cooking. What little brother isn't always after their big brother's approval, after all?
Nod of his head, he plants his hands on his waist and smiles. Pleased. With the outcome of his cooking and the fact that Vergil seems to like it. Maybe it's not his most favorite thing ever, but. It's enough to put a smile on the youngest son of Sparda's face and that's really all he was going for anyways with all this.
With that, he slips himself away from the chair and goes about loading up the sink with the dirty dishes from his creation. )
I'm thinkin' quiche next time. Yanno. When I get in the mood to rock out in the kitchen. You ever had that?
( Who's to say when that will be, but. There might very well be an encore of this performance sometime in the future. Date to be determined, naturally. )
[Vergil stays where he is at the table and shakes his head fondly as Dante moves back into the kitchen. He finally reaches for the wine. It's unlikely Vergil will drink the whole glass, but he's willing to at least have a few sips. It's a drier wine than Vergil would personally prefer under most circumstances if he were to choose to drink in the first place, but the red fruit and smokey quality to its flavor does undoubtedly pair nicely with the sauce that his brother put together.]
He makes one lasagna and suddenly he has high ambitions of perfecting a pie crust... [Despite Vergil's teasing, he's not unconvinced Dante can't do it. If he managed to pull out a decent lasagna and pair with a nice wine, surely he can manage an adequately flaky pie crust for a quiche. He waves his free hand as he gets another bite of lasagna.] Some morning when you feel the urge to be in charge of breakfast for us, the kitchen is yours.
[There isn't any reason as far as Vergil can see that Nero should miss out.]
( Glancing back over his shoulder, he chuckles. There's really no guarantee on when he'll get around to doing this, but. It's a thought he'll certainly tuck away to consider for some point in the future. For now, he's focused on putting all the dishes into the sink that he begins to fill with soapy hot water, deciding to let them soak in there and... tackle it all later.
Shaking the suds off his hands, he turns on his heel to face his brother and smiles again that he seems to be wining and dining there at the table. )
[None of the dishes or utensils Dante's used would be damaged from a prolonged soak should Dante forget, and it falls upon Vergil to finish cleaning them.]
( Pleased little hum, he nods β hands gripping under the counter he leans against. )
You good with that? ( To which he points to the lasagna. ) Or you want me to wrap the rest up and put it in the fridge?
( Not that he's assuming Vergil's going to devour the whole damn thing right then and there, but. He's not about to put it away if he wants a little more. )
Leave it out, [he says, shaking his head a little. Vergil may not be the bottomless pits his brother and son are, but he will still have a little more of the lasagna his brother went to all that effort to make.] You should let it cool off a little more anyways before you put it away.
Well, good thing you told me. I would have just tossed her on in there.
( Chuckle, he shakes his head. Something he'll have to keep a mental note of for any future cooking endeavors. But, seeing how the dishes are going to soak and Vergil's been enjoying his meal, he feels like this was a success on his part. )
[Dante means to tell Vergil that he not only baked a lasagna for the first time and chose an appropriate wine, he also went to the trouble of arrange dessert? Well, it's a good thing Dante already went through the trouble of assuring Vergil there was no ulterior motive behind any of this because otherwise, the elder son of Sparda would have questions.]
Yeah? C'mon, Verge. You can't have dinner without dessert.
( What kind of a guy is he? Chuckle on his lips and a shake of his head at the audacity, he pulls open the fridge and retrieves said dessert... which happens to be a chocolate mousse. No, no. Strawberry sundae would be a little overkill just like the pizza, so. He'd decided on a mousse which, thankfully, had been super easy to make.
Bowl placed down in front of his brother, he shows it off with dramatic hand gestures. )
Wow. You try and do somethin' nice and this is what ya get.
( Waving his brother off, he plucks a spoon off the table and plops it in the bowl of mousse for him since, well. He's not going to eat it with his hands or tongue. )
Or would you have rather vanilla? Strawberry would be more my taste.
[Vergil dismisses the flavoring as the issue by saying,] I do not really possess a sweet tooth.
[Dessert has never been much of a priority for Vergil since he was a child. If he's hungry after a meal, he just has more of the meal rather than seeking out dessert or some kind of snack.]
It is just odd to see you have put so much forethought into something.
[Asking Vergil not to think too much about something is like asking him not to breathe, but he does ultimately let the matter go.]
Go, [he says by way of giving Dante permission to leave and clean himself up. Before he does though, Vergil puts his hand briefly over the hand on his shoulder so that he might sincerely say,] And thank you, Dante.
( Looking back to his brother, hand still there on Vergil's shoulder, he smiles warmly... then goes and wraps his arms around his brother's neck, giving him a big old hug from the side. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. )
I love you, too, Verge.
( To which he then drops an extra loud kiss to the top of his big bro's head. Despite the corniness of it, the sentiment is genuinely sincere. )
[Vergil's nose wrinkles immediately the moment he's pulled into the embrace. His expression only scrunches further by the time he's receiving a kiss to the top of his head. He squirms, pushing on his brother wherever he might find purchase, swatting where he cannot, to get him to stop and wriggle his way out of the hold. The sentiment is not lost upon Vergil, but that does not mean that he's any more receptive to Dante's extremely theatrical displays of affection like this.]
"Despite the fact Kai crushes every flowercrown a spirit in Willow tries to place on her, the farmer she first stayed with, before I built the stable, said she is welcome to return come summer should the habitat in Wintermute offend her sensibilities, what with it being snow trodden year round," Mizu finishes explaining. She's only spoken at length about the stable she built with the help of golems, the hay and blankets needed to keep Kai warm in Wintermute, and the long discussion of how the year round winter of Wintermute (its summer meaning more light and fewer blizzards not withstanding) may be less tolerable to her horse than it is to Kai. It will be the mare's decision whether or not to spend the entire year in Wintermute. Everyone has to respect that.
Mizu serves herself yet again with hardly any prompting, a third serving, because she's truly famished and the food is too good to pass up. It's better than she needs and more, too. Of late, Mizu's eaten far more like she did on the road when short on coin, making each one stretch a long ways. Her days are busy and full. Sometimes she does not even make it to the library, all the more grateful for the way she's shifted to using the library for its purpose (borrowing books) to study them at home, whether that's her own or Vergil's. That some nights she falls asleep with the book in her lap is no matter. Kai is with her again, not only in Folkmore but in her own stable near Mizu's home, not in far off Willow (where the farmer's far more open to accepting Kai when Mizu wears a flower crown, an exception only being granted to the horse).
"It may mean more time spent in motion, going here and there," Mizu admits, "but a horse's needs cannot be overlooked. I'd gladly make the trek to Willow every day, as I did in the first days since Kai showed up on my doorstep."
Her lips curl up into a smile, and Mizu looks at Vergil. It was his doing, she's sure of it.
At this point in the meal, Vergil is more or less moving things around his plate rather than eating. His overall eating habits have not changed since Kai's arrival, but there have been some subtle changes when he takes his meals with Mizu. When they eat elsewhere, he's more insistent that it be his treat to allow Mizu to order whatever she'd like and to eat to her fill. They still eat at his home and with his family, but leftovers are a rarer occurrence with the bottomless pits he calls his brother and son than they are when it's just the two of them. So, he's arranged for more meals at her place lately on the off-chance there is something to leave behind, and he makes sure the meals are something that requires little effort beyond reheating to eat later. (Assuming, of course, Mizu is taking the time to reheat them in the first place. Vergil would not be surprised if she deemed it a waste of time and just ate whatever food straight out of the fridge.) He also eats a bit slower with her, too. Not that he thinks there's much of a chance for Mizu to be concerned that he's done and waiting for her to be as well, but it is hardly any great sacrifice on his part even if she's immune to feeling self-conscious over it. Hence why even once he's had his fill, he pretends to still be eating.
But that is the only part he is pretending to be doing. When it comes to listening to her, Vergil's attention is focused on her. He's quiet and does not interrupt. Sometimes Mizu will talk herself in a small circle, repeating a piece of information until something new is attached to it. He doesn't mind, however. It's rare to see Mizu so passionate in this way, so lacking in self-consciousness that words spill out easily and she never seems to realize it. She doesn't seem to concern herself with how clearly she's communicating or not, and just seems to implicitly trust he's keeping up. If that's even a concern of hers. Because frankly, Vergil doesn't fault her if it's not and she is merely seeking out a release for her excitement. It's good to see her this way, and feels better knowing he had at least a small hand in making it happen in the first place. So, he speaks when she goes looking for his input or there's an otherwise appropriate lull, but he does not change the subject or unkindly point out that she's told him about the blankets and their fabrics three times this week alone. Frankly, Vergil is more than content to simply listen with a faint smile on his lips if that's all she really needs from him.
"I'm sure it is of little concern to her what the weather is like," Vergil says. A beast willing to go toe-to-toe with a half-devil in a battle of wills is not likely to wilt over the constant presence of snow, but Vergil keeps that part to himself. For as knowing as Mizu's smile is, Vergil does not acknowledge it at all, and maintains the ruse of ignorance as to how the mare came to be in Folkmore. Mizu could be forgiven for assuming it to be a bit of a playful joke between them or even a clumsy attempt at humility, but it is actually quite sincere. He thinks by saying nothing, providing no hint or clue will keep it a mystery, and ultimately negate the importance of the question, which is thoroughly aligned with his intent. After all, if he wanted recognition, he could have sought it several different ways even in just the presentation of the horse alone. All Vergil wants, however, is for Mizu to be happy. For Kai to belong to her and only her as it should have been with no danger of someone taking her away again. She deserves that. So, Kai is not a gift given to her. She is something, someone returned to her. Vergil merely facilitated it happening. That's all and not important.
So, instead of the real reason he knows Kai is not likely one to care about the year-round snow and cold, he says, "Not when you have her living in the lap of luxury and quite possibly turning her into the most spoiled creature in this realm."
The pause, taken, gets filled with food. When they eat together, the food communal between the two of them, Mizu eats her fill and trusts Vergil to do the same. He often makes more food than either of them can eat, such that one or both of them have another meal in waiting once they are done. Such an excess in food means there's no reason to hold back. Vergil may have lacked the opportunity to cook and to eat such good food in the demon realm, but he makes up for it in Folkmore. Honestly, he's a better cook than Mizu would expect given his life history. He's needed to provide for himself, yes, the same as Mizu, but she's the one who spent a period of time expected to prepare all the meals and feed another. That hasn't happened in Folkmore since their time in Amrita Academy, where it was hunted game unseasoned and basic fare. Mizu can keep a man alive, but Vergil can cook.
Kai is a hardy horse, one used to the mountains and the winters there. She was wild, once living on her own under all conditions. She's her own creature, and no doubt her opinion on the matter will become clear. If not this summer, so shortly after her arrival, perhaps the next. Even should Mizu leave, when Mizu leaves, Kai deserves a life of her own choosing, not one depending on the whims of a lord who sees her only as one of many. A lord who hasn't earned her respect yet dictates her life. Unnatural.
"It is no less than she deserves," Mizu says, clucking her tongue. "No less than she had before, when we were first together. It is simply a matter that my home was not built to care for horses, the way Mikio's was long before I came there. I shared in all the chores we had and cared for Kai myself then, but I did not fully appreciate all the work that made such labor light enough we could care for a whole herd of horses. Not that I have any need or interest in having a herd of horses here. I need some time remaining for researchβ
"And time with certain individuals." Vergil, most of all. As much as Kai has taken up her time, Mizu continues to make as much time for Vergil as she had before. It means less time making swords. Less time at the library. Less time on other matters, but not Vergil. Like Kai, he is precious and will too slip through her fingers when she must leave.
Mizu sips her tea, only a second soaking of the leaves, and enjoys it. It tastes far more of tea than the weakened stuff that had lasted a week before. Though honestly she'd drag the leaves out even longer if Vergil came over less frequently.
"Try not to say that too loudly in her presence, please. I could do without an equine assassin," he says with a light, teasing smile. When Mizu sets her tea down, Vergil reaches for her free hand to hold on the table in the space between them. Because despite the tease, he knows there's really not competition to speak of, and he does not have any particular worry that his time with Mizu should be cut shorter than either of them desire. There's also something...pleasing about it, anyways. That she mentions research first, but so soon after time with others. Time that he knows is meant for him. Even if there was an inkling of jealousy, he would be hard-pressed to be so upon hearing such a blatant affirmation of his importance to her.
"You seem to be enjoying the work regardless of the demand upon your time."
Not that Mizu was treating it as some great secret, but it is still something worth noting all the same.
"I wouldn't know if she gave you a bruise. They fade too quickly, but she likes you better than Mikio," Mizu comments. Even once she tamed Kai (an odd term that doesn't feel right), Kai never took to Mikio. She and Mizu recognized each other, respected each other. They still do. Taking care of Kai and providing for her is part of showing that respect. "As long as you don't taunt her that you can run faster than her, you should be fine."
Vergil doesn't know much about horses. Mizu didn't either before her marriage. Yet he respects Kai for who she is and never complains when Mizu needs to finish doing something in the stables before they can spend time together. Nor does he complain about Mizu dragging him into riding horses for the sheer joy of it. So many moments her heart feels lighter since Kai arrived. Since Vergil brought Kai here. It is in the fox spirit's nature to allow it but not to provide it unprompted. He didn't give her a horse. He allowed her part of her life back that Mizu thought gone for good. It never occurred to her to summon Kai, the horse she lost. The horse she has back. It will not be possible in Japan. Mizu cannot simply demand her horse back from a lord. Here, however, it's good.
"It wasn't a bad life, while it was good. Taking care of horses," Mizu says. "I never delivered them to his lord, never dealt with anyone. I wouldn't want to. Mikio couldn't choose his customers the way Master Eiji does. The work is good. The business is not."
Horses are expensive, so Mizu never had one after Kai. She walked. On occasion she took a boat or rode a horse, but those were exceptions when they were necessary. Even in Folkmore, it takes a lot. Mizu socializes more because of it. On Kai's behalf. There are simply too few Star Children and spirits in need of swords for that to sustain her. Time with Vergil isn't transactional like that. She'd do it, even if it didn't give her a lick of Lore.
To her comment about Mikio, Vergil is not surprised by does not say as much. Not that he believes Mikio provided the mare with substandard care. Herd animals are easier to maintain if they are provided with equal treatment, and that perspective alone was likely enough to ensure she was well cared for while she remained with him. But there may be something to this horse in her ability to judge character from all that Vergil knows of Mizu's late husband if she still had a low tolerance for him, but was willing for Mizu.
"Perhaps that's part of why Kai took to you, but not to him," he says. "She knew you cared for her, not what she would do for you."
Much in the way that Mikio never really mistreated Mizu. Until the end, he kept to his word of keeping her safe from the outside world in exchange for her contributions to the household. It was only when she stepped out of line, bruised his fragile ego that he demonstrated cruelty towards Mizu and her surrogate mother. For as little as Vergil knows of horses, he can tell Kai is of good stock. She's visibly strong and maintains an elegant form even if only for Mizu. She would be akin to a jewel amongst mere coins likely compared to the rest of the herd. Perhaps that's why Mikio gifted her to Mizu, Vergil thinks. It was not just out of respect for the bond Mizu made with the mare, but he saw it as sacrificing something for her. To say the bond they were developing meant something to him. But then Mizu did not serve the correct purpose when she so thoroughly defeated him in swordplay, and she lost her value. Kai had not.
Vergil chooses not to dwell on his cruel decisions any further.
"But I suppose when you've chosen to make it your business and you reek of horse most days, I imagine you just have to be grateful for whoever is willing to tolerate it to do business. How fortunate it is for you that I am willing to tolerate it for your sake alone and without expectation you are going to sell something to me." He's teasing her lightly, again. He does not mind the change to her scent since Kai's arrival all that much beyond a mild lack of recognition at first. It is no more overbearing or particularly unpleasant to him than the scents left upon her by work in the forge. Its only crime for a time was being novel, but he now expects the scent of straw and Kai to linger upon her just as earth and heat and metal normally do, and it would seem odd without them. More seriously, he says, "I agree that the business would not likely suit you, but the work certainly does. Or at the very least, you are quite good at charming creatures that so often refuse and tolerate little when it comes to the company of others."
"That's true," Mizu agrees. She remembers how Mikio spoke about Kai from the beginning. He wanted to find and train the perfect horse for his lord in the belief that doing so could regain him his honor. Mizu doesn't know whether Mikio received his title back in return for Kai or whether he would have. She doesn't care. He was a coward who abandoned his wife to face multiple enemies who meant to kill her. He left her to die and crawled back begging for forgiveness only after they were dead. He had no honor. Honor is trash, but Mikio valued it and failed to live up to it on the most basic level. Kai could not give him his honor back when he had none.
Mizu lifts a shoulder, not releasing Vergil's hand where he's grasped it, to sniff at her armpit. It smells faintly of hay and horse, but she smells remarkably clean by her standards. Bathing in Folkmore comes easily. She can soak in her own home, indoors, without risk of discovery. It's luxurious, the way only lords would bathe in Japan. That means she bathes more frequently, for the pleasure of it after a long day of physical labor. Some new soap or other bathing item appeared at her bath without warning, but Mizu's avoided it because unlike Kai, it's not the sort of gift Vergil would simply leave around for her. In all likelihood, it does something when used. Mizu'd rather not experience one of the fox spirit's pranks or trials while naked.
The work suits her. It's an idea that gives Mizu pause. She trained to make swords. She trained herself for revenge and set herself on that path. She stepped aside, stumbled, for a short time but returned to it. The work, the work she learned to do helping Mikio, doesn't on first glance help her revenge, yet everything helps the pursuit of one's art. Swordfather taught her that. How does taking care of Kai help her on her course of revenge? On the simplest level, she has that answer when it comes to Vergil. Sparring with him makes her a better swordsman, no matter that her fathers will be unable to do what he can with a sword. It increases the odds she'll succeed, she'll live. Kai? Perhaps should she need to travel by horse, should her fathers not be in London proper but the countryside like Vergil's estate in that memory world on the train, her experience with Kai will help her. Yet she cares for Kai because she's Kai. Kai may very well make it take longer for Mizu to accomplish her revenge, to be ready to return home, because of her many needs and because going home means never seeing Kai again either. It is goodbye to both Vergil and Kai, no matter that Kai is from her world, her time and place. Mizu may be falling for the fox spirit's tricks, the way things always grow complicated and difficult once one plays with that danger. Mizu doesn't regret that, and that may be what happens to people in those stories.
"I lack charm, but I am one of those creatures myself," Mizu says, somewhat teasing herself, somewhat serious. "We recognize and respect each other. I reached out, but the decision was entirely hers. I would have respected a no."
It sounds not so different from how Mizu and Vergil became close. Though with Rin, perhaps, Mizu was more like Kai than the other way around. Rin's gone and hopefully building the life she wants back home. Her future is there, not in Folkmore. Folkmore isn't forever. It's only a place for now, for a short period. Not for life. "Though if the stink must be tolerated with great effort, we could move to the bath. I'm nearly done with dinner."
Vergil wrinkles his nose slightly as Mizu goes about sniffing her own armpit at the dinner table, but he does not offer any particular admonishment for the behavior all the same. For one, she's not a child, and for another, Vergil doubts very much it would do anything to dissuade her from it in the future. It is with a quiet, soft sigh that he shakes his head. And there is no particular protest either when she says she lacks charm shortly thereafter, although he does still somewhat disagree. She lacks a traditional charm, one that follows manners and etiquette, but that does not mean she's truly without any charm whatsoever.
"How merciful of you," he says with a quiet, amused huff. "Either way, if you're nearly done, I'll set to cleaning up while you finish."
Vergil rises to his feet, but does not yet release Mizu's hand.
"Try to taste and savor it, won't you? I didn't work hard making it for you to just inhale it," he says, his free hand turning her face towards him as he bends down to press a kiss to her lips all the same. "How you don't give yourself a stomachache constantly is beyond me."
And yet, despite the mild scolding for how quickly she eats, he still provides Mizu another kiss with a smile on his lips, his thumb gently stroking her opposite cheek. Giving her hand a light squeeze before letting go, he breaks the kiss and straightens back out to clear both his place setting and the remainder of the meal from the table. By his estimation, there's enough left for one or two more meals depending on how Mizu opts to make it stretch. Knowing her recent patterns, it will probably err on the side of two rather than one. Vergil hopes soon a bit of an equilibrium will be naturally achieved now that Kai is more or less settled, and it's that same hope that keeps him from essentially staging an intervention.
While Mizu notices Vergil's reaction, she doesn't think much of it. He's no prim princess when it comes to cleansliness, not after his description of the demon realm and what he did to survive there. He keeps himself clean in Folkmore, cleaner than Mizu can do the same back in Japan. She too is cleaner here, with the privacy afforded by the bath and life not spent on the road. It's a luxurious life, for all the work she does. It's even easier now she doesn't spend weeks healing after each of their bouts.
Her chopsticks move to shovel the rest of her food in her mouth. Vergil's been barely eating at his plate for some time now. He's waited on her eating long enoughβ
Mizu blinks, her hand pausing as she processes the request. She barely kisses him back the first time, better reacting the second. She laughs a little. "It'd take far more to give me a stomach ache. Perhaps a sword to the gut."
It started when she was young, on the street. Food was there when it was there, and people would chase her off if they saw her. So it was scooped up with her hands, gone in seconds. Food was reliable with Master Eiji, a blessing she never took for granted, but it also wasn't good. It gave them energy to make swords. It didn't need to do anything else, like taste appetizing. Traveling, it was still best whenever in a town to eat her food quickly and be on her way. She attracted negative attention often enough she wouldn't always get to finish the meals she paid for if she took her time. It's hard to slow down, but Mizu takes smaller bites and chews. It tastes far better than anything she's made.
Still, it's only food, and Mizu doesn't need that long to eat it. That may say something, given it's her third serving, three times as much as she generally eats as a meal these days, but she's warm and full with it. She gives a pleasant sigh at the feeling and stands to clear her plate. She sets it on the counter and slides it across, leaning herself but giving Vergil all the room he may need in the kitchen. He doesn't have to clean up after her. She's fine cleaning in her own place, especially since he cooked. Yet she doesn't insist. She appreciates having one less chore to do.
"Your smell's changed a little since Dante and Nero showed up," Mizu comments. "Subtly, but it's there. You smell like family."
Once the leftovers are tucked away in the fridge, Vergil sets to cleaning the dishes. There isn't much already in the sink still in need of washing given that Vergil cleaned as he cooked. He's more or less ready for her dishes once she finishes and brings them over. Vergil doesn't mind that Mizu makes no offer to at least clean her own dishes because even over a year later, it still feels a bit odd to be doing things like dishes and laundry and preparing meals. They're domestic things that haven't been featured all that often in his life. But he would be lying if he said he didn't derive a little pleasure in doing them here in Folkmore, especially when they are things he can do for the ones he loves.
"Pizza grease and motor oil? You should have said something sooner," he says dryly enough that to anyone else's ear, it would probably sound like he was taking the opportunity to insult his brother and son or otherwise be dismissive of what she said. But Mizu knows the importance of Vergil's family to him and she's learned the subtle tells by his tone to know it's not a genuine refutation.
Vergil knows that he's changed since Dante and Nero arrived. He's still quiet and reserved, preferring the company of his books to others. He also has not abandoned his pride or skill as a warrior, nor has his temper dissipated. But there's also something...a little softer within him these days, and Vergil finds himself being braver in ways that he never could be when he was younger. Frankly... Well, there's really no other way of putting it than he's more human than he's been in a very long time. It's terrifying at times, and he does not always handle it with the greatest amount of grace or the least amount of doubt and insecurity, but it's sincere and just because it's difficult doesn't mean he's any less dedicated to it.
But he also knows it's not just because of his kin alone that these changes have come about. They are a large, primary factor, but that does not make Mizu's contributions any less important. She knows of his mistakes and the blood and consequences that came because of his decisions. Mizu does not and cannot offer absolution for his wrongdoings, but neither does she hold them against him. Whatever she may think of the uglier, more broken parts of him, she accepts them. Oftentimes, she accepts them better than he does even as Vergil's found ways to make peace with parts of his past. So, it's not a case of one or the other. Mizu and his family both make him better. Or, at the very least, they both push him to strive for better.
"I could only determine the former once Nero took me for pizza. Those pockets do not smell like anything," Mizu notes lightly. Pizza, even tomato sauce, was new to Mizu. She's still only had it a few times. She went back to the place Nero took her once since he threatened her should she hurt Vergil. That pizza is good, and she's often in Epiphany. Had Nero taken her to Tides, she wouldn't have returned. It isn't that good.
The smells themselves are neither good nor bad on their own. They don't bother Mizu or put her off. What she likes, what she appreciates, are what they mean for Vergil. He has his family in Folkmore, his whole reason for coming here. He can take his time here and simply enjoy a life with them. In time, he can find a way back to it in his world. After the time they're having together here, Mizu doubts anyone could keep Vergil from his son. They couldn't before either. Not someone willing to follow a fox spirit on the chance it will lead him there. He might not be looking into that right now, spending time with his family and with Mizu. It's why she's certain she'll leave first. Mizu cannot achieve her revenge in Folkmore. Even if one or more of her fathers showed up, killing them would do little good. They'd return like weeds, not removed at the root. So she will need to leave, while Vergil has what he wants here and now. And Mizuβ
Mizu wants more and more, the longer she stays. It's dangerous, that longing.
"We can wash up, but we'll both smell the same in a day or two," Mizu says. That hardly negates the joy of washing or the luxury of hot water filling the bath like a natural hot spring. She appreciates cold soaks too, even enjoys them more sometimes. The ocean is a place of calm within her. "Only with more relaxed muscles."
Vergil had been surprised to learn that Nero opted to take Mizu out for pizza. Not to say that there had been any continued tensions between the two of them that would lead Vergil to believe they were best not left alone. On the contrary. Despite the fact Mizu did not heed Vergil's warning before sparring with Nero, the pair seemed to be doing well enough with each other. Not enough to say there was a friendship necessarily as Nero was quite clear there were aspects of Mizu he found to be...off-putting, if Vergil were to be generous, but certainly enough to consider them not on poor terms.
So, he wouldn't have exactly thought anything unusual if Nero had simply kept her company or let Mizu be entirely until Vergil's return. Despite how rough Nero's language may be, he is still exceedingly polite when he wishes to be, and it seems to be within his practice to remain so unless someone provides him with reason to be otherwise. Especially seeing as how by then, Nero knew the truth of their relationship. That they are...dating. (It still seems a strange thing to say for Vergil, but that's more a by-product of avoiding a label for so long than any reflection of their relationship.) Nero seemed quite nonplussed by the information, but generally supportive nonetheless. So, the polite nature of their relationship continuing seemed more likely than more intentional time spent together. Thus, Vergil's surprise that Nero suggested they go out for pizza. However, despite curiosity about the outing, Vergil chose not to pry for details from Mizu or Nero. Neither said much about it beyond Nero did giving Vergil a bit of playful grief along the lines of "you snooze, you lose," and so Vergil simply trusted it went well. There's certainly been nothing amiss since between the two of them that would suggest otherwise even if there has been no repeat since to his knowledge. Regardless, Vergil has chosen that unless either one of them explicitly requests his intervention, he shall let it be between them.
"Perhaps," he says, setting aside the last of the dishes to dry before rinsing down any remaining suds in the sink. "But I think more importantly when the scents of the bath fade, it's my scent that's on you first."
Whether that's because Vergil is with her and close to her or she's helped herself to his clothing, he's confident that his scent is the first. Perhaps that's why Kai does not mind him nearly as much, he thinks faintly. She's come to associate his scent with Mizu enough that she contemplates kicking him rather than immediately deciding it as the only choice. It's as good a theory as any, but it's not really the point. Sink and hands clean, he steps over to where Mizu is leaning against the counter and places his hands on either side of her, resting his forehead against hers in a gentle nuzzle. Vergil likes the little marks he leaves upon her regardless of whether they are marks of his passion and desire or his scent alone. Mizu is his and allows for those to remain on her skin because she chooses to give herself to him. It remains a pleasing thrill to him even beyond their more intimate acts with one another because he's proven himself to be worthy of it, safe enough for that sort of vulnerability from one just as guarded as he also tends to be.
So rarely in Mizu's life has she smelled like someone else. No doubt she and Master Eiji smelled similarly while living together. The same could probably be said for her and Mikio. Yet not even with her husband was there as much cuddling, as much mingling of their scents. She started wearing Vergil's clothes because she missed the smell of him, the sense of him being there with her. It's different but similar to reminding herself with the bruises she doesn't erase, those that comes from their time being intimate instead of sparring. She enjoys them, and she enjoys Vergil's reaction to them, so that what started as a whim becomes a conscious choice. Each one is kept, and she keeps his scent on her as long as she can, mildly bothered when his scent is gone from his clothes. He has to wear them again, so they smell right. It's a comfort and, yes, exciting to be wanted that much.
Mizu rests her head against his and her hands on Vergil's waist. Her instinct is to draw these moments out, but the truth of the matter is that they will come. More will come. Mizu can trust they will come. So she doesn't slide her arms around behind him to hold Vergil close.
"We are due for a bath then," Mizu teases, "I can't smell you on me over Kai, and Kai doesn't appreciate me smelling like her the way you do." Oh she smells a little of Vergil, from spending time tonight, but she makes the unnecessary excuse, the teasing. She kisses him, without a push for more and no hurry to move along. She rubs his sides, comfortable and full and perhaps a bit stinky but unbothered by it.
When Mizu tilts her lips close to his for the kiss, Vergil returns it. It's sweet and chaste, and the only point of contact he seeks out for now with his hands still on either side of her on the counter even as she feels at his sides over his clothes. Just as she does not push for more, neither does he. It's only ever in private that Vergil is this free with his affection, but he does not feel the particular need to be overbearing about it. These little gestures are just as important and enough on their own as compared to the bigger ones.
"Well then, if she lacks that much sense, it sounds as though she may be more foolish than the one who looks after her," he says with a teasing smile against her lips before kissing her again. Vergil moves one of his hands from the counter to along Mizu's forearm, tracing down along to her wrist and hand. "Her loss. My gain."
Intertwining their fingers together, Vergil presses a kiss to Mizu's hairline before stepping back. His other hand follows a similar path along Mizu's other arm, but does not end in holding her hand so much as gently disentangling them from one another. By the hand he's holding, Vergil leads her the few paces to her stairs, guiding her to walk ahead of him once they reach the base of them. He's long-since been allowed into the upstairs of Mizu's cabin without needing some form of explicit permission from her. There's nothing really remarkable up there as far as the bedroom or bathroom are concerned, and nothing about Mizu in those spaces would somehow shock or scandalize him either. Simply put, the upstairs to her cabin hardly feels even remotely forbidden to him as it had in the beginning of their time together. But despite there now being this implicit standing invitation to share in the space, Vergil respects the whole of it as hers still. Thus, every now and again, he does little things like this because he knows most are not privy to any of it let alone as much as Vergil tends to be.
Mizu laughs, yet she cannot imagine Kai being possessive. Not with her free spirit. They choose each other, but they remain proud independent creatures. Kai no more owns her than Mizu owns Kai. It's an independence not at odds with Vergil's possessiveness and Mizu's feelings toward it. Only a different relationship between two individuals. Mizu squeezes his hand and leads the way up the stairs, appreciative as ever for the luxuriously generous housing she's found for herself in Wintermute. As few visitors as she gets, Mizu appreciates the additional privacy of her bedroom taking longer to reach, out of sight of the front door. A space to be herself without worry and only with someone she's invited to it.
The stairs turn halfway up, another measure of privacy, and Mizu walks up without a hurry. Once in her room, she squeezes Vergil's hand before releasing it and takes the time to start the water. It is a large space to fill, hot and steaming, before returning to her room to remove her clothes. She wears the same outfit she always wears, when she wears her own clothes, and removing it piece by piece. After a moment's thought, Mizu sets them aside for the wash, rather than hanging them back in her closet. The greatest relief comes when she unbinds her chest, a small sigh. It's easier to breath, and Mizu stretches, enjoying the freedom of movement.
"We have a little time til it's ready," Mizu comments. Amazed as ever at baths that come without lugging water back and forth. It takes no more effort than turning the tap and a little waiting. She pulls her hair down, and it falls far down her back. "You know, unless I'm going out, I usually put your clothes on first after a bath."
While Mizu steps away to begin filling the tub, Vergil begins to strip his layers. When she returns and begins to remove her own clothes, he watches her. Vergil's gaze is one of admiration and appreciation rather than one of desire in this moment. It's not a rare sight for Vergil to see, but he's still captivated all the same because it's like this that Mizu has shed everything that is not her. The expectations of others that she must always answer to bears no further weight on her. She simply is, and breathes easier for it in not just the literal sense of the phrase. Her skin is not without blemishesβthere are scars from old wounds and marks still fading from the last time they made loveβand she seems a contradiction with such soft curves alongside hard lines of muscle, but she is nothing short of exceptional and perfect in Vergil's eyes. He makes no secret of that thought either as he looks at her.
"You're still welcome to them," he says, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, right over one of his faded marks. It used to be just one set of clothes Vergil left behind, but he's left more with Mizu since learning of her little habit in his absence to allow her to indulge in it as much as she likes. Or, in this case, allow her to indulge without leaving him without anything to wear. Vergil runs a hand through her hair, pulling some strands forward as he does, idly noting just how long it's grown. His other hand rests at her hip, thumb lightly stroking at warm skin. Vergil wants for nothing right now, his contentment plain in his expression.
Sometimes, less frequently now, Mizu expects to find a different body when Vergil looks at her like that. He looks at her the way no one else hasβbeautiful, wanted, loved. Her body is soft and slight for a man's, long and barely curved for a woman's. Her eyesβ he likes her eyes best, has complimented them from the earliest days. What most marks her, in her world, as hideous, and he finds them attractive. Strange but welcome. While Mizu cannot understand why, she accepts Vergil finds her that way. It's present so much of the time, with and without passion, so that it saturates the space. Her bedroom is the main place she's naked. His bedroom door isn't enough privacy to strip, not with his family living with him.
Her head leans to one side as he kisses her. The skin's barely bruised any longer, and Mizu'd welcome him darkening it again if Vergil were so inclined. She traces a couple places on his skin, all perfectly clear, where she left the briefest of marks herself. Mizu has to pull back and observe them then and there if she wants to see them at all. They're gone so quickly. It is fine, part of reality. She has his clothes, if not her marks on his skin. "Then when you leave, you can wear the clothes that no longer smell like you. I've worn them out."
Mizu stays close and leans against him. "Or I can get your smell from you directly. As well."
As Mizu leans against him, Vergil's hand at her hip moves to the small of her back. It's enough to keep her closeβwelcoming and inviting the weight she presses onto himβbut not enough to restrict her movement or prevent either of them from moving for the bath once it's ready.
"I would think either would be satisfactory for the intended purpose," he says, continuing to idly play with the loose strands of her hair. Vergil understands why she wears her hair the way she does, but he cannot help wondering what she would look like with other styles applied to it. He's certain she would look just as handsome and beautiful, but it would be a curious sight to see after so long of the same way of wearing it day in and day out. It's something that will remain in his imagination, however. Assuming she were at least amenable to wearing something different in the privacy of her room, the sum total of hairstyles known between them that would differ is likely exactly zero.
But it is no matter. He's already spoiled each time her hair is released and left for him to pet and play with. Vergil doesn't know if she likes or particularly prefers the sensation of it, but she has yet to complain when he runs his fingers through it. At the very least, she's understanding that he enjoys the act as a means of affection to her, and indulgence in something few people can likely claim to have experienced for themselves.
"Of course," he continues, "I believe one affords a bit more enjoyment for you than the other. And you could not be faulted for indulgences with as hard as you've been working lately."
So far as being reminded of Vergil when he's gone, yes, his clothes or the man himself will do. Yet the same way that Vergil always finds ways to touch Mizu when they're in private, whether they sit shoulder to shoulder, hold hands, trace each other's skin, or even like now feel how long her hair is, Mizu wants those connections. She runs her fingers along his spine, feeling the point at which his tail, his second spine, comes out when he so chooses. She welcomes him in whatever form he wishes, though admittedly a full transformation is more difficult to cuddle safely. That's no matter. She'd no more disentangle herself from him with an exoskeleton than the softer overlay of muscles over bone.
Enjoyment, as Vergil puts it. Indulgences. Oh, Mizu indulges herself with Vergil all the time, all the time they do anything besides spar. That initial reason for meeting that extended to Vergil taking care of her afterward to ensure she didn't collapse until that stretched out. Now, they spend more time not sparring than sparring, despite her ability to heal her wounds to be ready to go the next day. "You enjoy it as much as I do, as much more than me merely wearing your clothes," Mizu tells Vergil, "While I'm here, I'll indulge as much as I like."
Not that Mizu's entirely sure what that amount would be, were there not the matter of Vergil spending time with Dante and Nero. Their time together at Amrita was forced upon them by limited resources, yet with some time apart during the day, Mizu didn't feel suffocated. She misses Vergil the nights they sleep apart, and it's one reason she spends the night sometimes at his place. All they do is read and cuddle and nothing that would keep his brother and son away, save for their imaginations. Mizu appreciates having her space, that this cabin is hers that she welcomes him into, yet how much more would she welcome him in? They've found a balance that works, and Mizu appreciates it for what it is. After all, she has plenty of work to do when he's not here and falls asleep without trouble.
"How long do you smell me on you when we part?" Mizu asks. It might last longer, with a better sense of smell, but she doesn't know him to have the same habits she's picked up. Not that she's needed to leave a spare set of clothes at his home. She could.
"It is not usually a prominent scent when we see one other again, but I'm never away from you long enough to lose it completely," he says, confirming her speculation about his stronger sense of smell playing a factor given his only means of her scent is Mizu herself.
Although in Vergil's case, Mizu is right. It's not the scents of work that tend to linger in place of her scent when it begins to fade, but the the scents of his family. Because it's rare these days that Vergil is able to read without someone coming to rest upon him, and that includes his brother and son when they want his attention. And while it's more of a friendly competition than it used to be between brothers and a matter of training for his son, he still occasionally spars with each of them around various places in Folkmore. Vergil also stays in the garage for a little while to listen to Nero excitedly explain his latest project to him, and concedes to Dante's whims for dinner on occasion.
But he still has traces of Mizu. Faint and fading, and likely imperceptible to her human senses, but still there nonetheless.
It should not make her smile the way it does, the fact Vergil comes around frequently enough that he can always smell himself on her. That he's always a part of her life, present in one way or another, and reliable enough that he's simply part of what makes Mizu smell like Mizu to anyone else she meets. Others may not identify it as Vergil, and they may not be able to smell it all the time unless they too have excellent senses of smell, but it's still there.
Mizu smells like her life here: fresh steel, tea, old books, snow, a particular horse, and Vergil. The rest can come and go, depending on what happens, but those underlay the rest. Folkmore isn't a place that can last, but while she's here, so long as she's here, she's built a life. It still serves her revenge, her quest that she investigates in her time here. It simply does more? It's not the life of comfort and power that Heiji Shindo tried to bribe her with. It's not the life of a quiet life setting the rest aside that Mizu tried to build with Mikio and her mother. Yet it's a life, more of a life than she's had since she set out for her revenge. Perhaps because it isn't in Japan. Perhaps because people face far stranger than a single onryo regularly in their time in Folkmore. Perhaps because it's no one's home, and no one will stayβ
Mizu strokes Vergil's back and sets aside the fact she'll leave one day. It's not today. Today she can have these luxuries. A warm private bath. Companionship. "The water should be ready."
It takes effort to pull away from Vergil. She's not that dirty, but Mizu won't waste the water. She leads the way to the bathroom and turns off the tap. She steps into the hot water. Mizu lets out a small sigh and lowers into the water. She could get used to this. She's already gotten used to so much.
Vergil holds her hand as she steps into the bath. Mizu is surefooted and unlikely to slip, of course, but he holds her hand all the same. It's a point of contact between them, and the point of leverage still serves a purpose in supporting Mizu as she lowers herself into the water. Vergil smiles slightly as she sighs, even as her hand slips from him. The need for a bath may not have been nearly so great as she pretended it to be for there to be a reasonable excuse for it, but that does not mean there is not still some benefit to be gained from it.
Once Mizu is relatively settled, Vergil joins her in the water. Mizu's tub is large enough for the both of them to comfortably fit without touching one another. But by Vergil's measure, there's very little reason to take a bath together and not be touching in some capacity. But Vergil does not settle right next to her, and when Vergil reaches for her, he's not seeking to move her from where she's already settled. He disturbs her less than that, and draws her legs into his lap. Without asking or any sort of preface, he begins to warm up one of her feet for a massage. The hot water will do plenty for relaxing and loosening her muscles back up. But with as much time as she spends on her feet with everything that she does, Vergil would be hard-pressed to believe that the hot water on its own would be enough.
Vergil only breaks his quiet once he moves on from warming her foot up to begin properly massaging it, and says, "Tell me if you want more or less of anything."
Not that Mizu has ever been particularly good at masking her reactions to physical sensations that Vergil couldn't somehow intuit his way to the right direction, but Vergil still gives her the explicit permission to guide the massage towards what feels best to her. If she wants him to linger or repeat part of it, or she wants more or less pressure, he's content to oblige her. It is, after all, meant to relax her further and bring about more relief than the water can do on its own.
Cold water is more Mizu's element than hot, but the heat soothes her muscles. That soothes her mind and relaxes her. She could soak in the water until she's loose, until the small aches and pains melt away. It leaves her in better condition than she usually ever is in Japan and more relaxed than healing herself with her Lore-bought ability. She's ready to enjoy it quietly with Vergil, and Mizu expects the touch, some form of touch, because it'd be unlike either of them to keep their distance. Her legs in Vergil's lap feels natural for that, and Mizu adjusts for it.
Less expected is the attention that follows. The concept isn't new to Mizu, but she's never received it before Vergil. A quiet reminder of how different he is from Mikio. The thought doesn't cause a flicker in her emotions or relaxation. It's natural to compare the two, and as ever, Vergil comes out the better man and the more attentive partner. She sighs a little, even as he warms up her feet. They've born her weight most of the day, it being a day of little reading, and she feels where it's taken a toll. Mizu hums slightly at Vergil's direction. She accepts it but neither plans to speak nor to hold her silence. She lets it proceed.
"Oh," Mizu groans at a particularly sore spot. There's pain, but behind that pain comes relief. The release of tension that means it will feel better once it's been dealt with. "Deeper."
Each time the pressure eases, Mizu sighs a little easier. It's incredible what pain she simply takes for granted until it's gone, relieved. You don't have to, Mizu almost says, except she knows he knows that. Vergil does it anyway. Happily. She lets him, and Mizu relaxes with it more than she ever would were she to massage her own foot on her own. Then, she'd remain alert to anyone approaching her cabin, who might interrupt while she's naked and exposed. She has to, always, on her own. Vergil's senses are stronger than her own, and he will not let someone get close. That's more relaxing than the bath: to let her guard down.
"Would you get any benefit," Mizu asks, "if I were to give you a massage?"
Vergil covers the whole of Mizu's feet as he massages them, extending the massage along not just the tops of her feet, but her ankles and lower legs as well while he has access to them. The difference from when he started is noticeable beyond just the feel of muscles and tendons loosening beneath his touch. Mizu's legs increasingly come to rest heavier and heavier in his lap as he progresses, especially after attending to a particularly sore point with deeper pressure. He does not simply stop touching her though even once he's through with the massage and all the tension seems to have left her. Vergil continues with light touches as though it would keep away any notion of tension returning and allowing her to stay with that feeling of relaxation for longer.
"I think that would depend on whether or not you had any skill with it," he teases lightly. Despite his healing factor, Vergil is not actually any more immune to muscle tension than Mizu happens to be.
Her head leans back, and the water and Vergil support much of her weight. Mizu feels both heavy and light at the same time. Even her question comes from only a half-present matter of curiosity. Vergil's teasing response pulls a bit of a scowl to her face. She would not guess Vergil had much experience with massages, and he's done an excellent job. Surely, she could do... decently. Rubbing and massaging doesn't seem that hard, and Mizu would not be trying to do more than relieve any aches he might have. Part of her wants to pull her legs down, grab his, and let him experience what that might be like.
However, Mizu is comfortable and comfortable enough not to step immediately toward a foolish challenge. Oh, she's not letting the idea go, but Mizu can be a little smarter about it. "I'll pay attention next time you massage my feet when we're not in the bath," she says, "Then I can copy what you do. As we've both seen, you have skill enough with it."
She's used to studying people's hands, their feet, their movements. Mizu wants some time to practice on her own feet before immediately trying it on Vergil's, but it shouldn't be hard. It cannot be harder than learning how to use a sword. "You'll just have to trust me."
"If you are able to learn it after one more massage, then I am doing a terrible job of it," he says with a light laugh. Not that Vergil wouldn't put it past Mizu to still unintentionally undermine the purpose of the massage to learn his techniques by watching him carefully. Mizu has proven through enough of their games that she's able to still find pleasure in sensation, but remain grounded enough that she does not lose sight of her intentions and goals. But that's a different matter. Those intimate games that he challenges her with only provide Vergil the excuse to worship every inch of her, and flood every last of her senses. Even if she doesn't succumb and lose, the outcome remains the same. This, however, has the intention of relaxing her as she is now. Keeping a sharp eye and awareness of his hands only serves to change the outcome, and undermine its intention.
Vergil reaches for her again, but this time draws her in closer to him. He doesn't pull her into his lap entirely, but he pulls her near enough that she can lean back against his chest. With her legs slipping from his lap, Vergil's entangles their legs together loosely just as he so often does when they lay in bed and idle away a portion of the morning together. He traces along one of her arms with his fingertips before more firmly wrapping his arms around her.
Mizu raises an eyebrow at the suggestion because she focuses firstly and primarily on the idea that she might not be able to learn how to perform a massage after only one more massage. She's absolutely certain that she could apply the same techniques of observation wherein she learned how to fight to the far more relaxed activity of massage. Her relaxed state means it only partially draws her fighting spirit, but her determination to prove herself burns like a furnace within. It takes longer, even as Vergil reaches for her and Mizu goes with him, to notice the second half of the statement. A proper massage would distract her, at least if his aim is to melt her into relaxation. Yet a single massage could be sacrificed so that Mizu could learn how to perform it. Vergil could even provide an extra massage, such that none is truly lost at all. There are easy ways around that matter.
This massage has worked, however, and Mizu doesn't argue her point further. It's set aside but not forgotten as she sighs. Mizu leans against Vergil and runs a hand over his thigh where it touches. It's the heart sutra in slow steady strokes over the same area of skin. If she were to write it properly, she'd use far more of him as a canvas, but they're in the water, relaxed, and there is no inkwell and brush.
Mizu leans her head farther back. Mizu cannot see Vergil in any great angle, but the words catch her by surprise. She spoke in quick heat, of her ability to learn, not of herself more broadly. Yet the two feel intertwined. He trusts she could learn how to give massages, and he trusts... her. "You're safe with me," Mizu says, "You're safe here."
He can sense any threat before she does, but Mizu doesn't mean merely physically safe, something Vergil rarely has need to fear here. She strives that they both feel safe in her home. They're safe to relax in the bath together. They're safe reading books in the mornings. Vergil can reveal anything here and be safe. Here, with her, in this space she's created. Sometimes she holds him in her arms, and she feels expansively large and protective. She has him, and she'll always do right by that. Has in the months since she found words for her desire and the way it matched his.
It does not register at first to Vergil that Mizu is writing upon his thigh. Between his lack of familiarity with the characters and just how gentle the touch is, it takes a few characters being formed completely before it occurs to him that there is structure behind the touch and Mizu is writing. Lacking any sense of meaning behind them, Vergil contents himself with merely trying to delineate where one character ends and the next begins. It's a bit of an interesting challenge with his lack of knowledge when it comes to stroke order, but the general patterns of what is meant to be drawn first begin to make it a little easier. Or so he thinks, in any case.
Mizu leans her head back and promises him that he is safe, and Vergil understands her meaning without the need for clarification. More and more, Vergil has learned to let his guard down. He's imperfect at it, and well-aware of that fact, but he's found himself more often than not trying with those he cares for regardless. For all that it often leaves him feeling vulnerable in ways that make his skin crawl, and he often must endure awkward pauses and silences as others process what he's elected to share, it has typically been a worthwhile risk. But that willingness to take a chance began here with Mizu, and it is precisely because Vergil has nearly always felt some degree of safety with her.
It's why he gives her question serious thought rather than merely brushing it aside as he would with most others. A question that he feels is asked more and more by those around him that care for him in return, and one that he never really possesses a clear answer for no matter how many times or in what different circumstances and ways it's asked. Still, he considers it as best he can before answering.
"Not right now," he says, leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to the fading mark along the slope of her neck. "I have all that I could possibly want."
Yes, Mizu wants and is glad Vergil feels safe, and she'd gladly give him something that would help with that. She wants to take care of him the way she feels taken care of by him. Sometimes she feels spoiled. Vergil cooked dinner, did the dishes, and even in the bath has massaged her feet. Mizu, on the other hand, was a halfway decent conversationalist at best and doesn't feel she's done more than simply let him be present and around. Doing things for each other isn't a competition. It's something she's usually selfish about and takes and takes and takes because it's so rare because her revenge comes first because she knows little about taking care of someone. Instead of simply coming up short, if that's what she's doing, Mizu asks. As so many times, the answer is nothing. There is nothing for Mizu to do.
He has all he could possibly want. That's true of the moment, but Mizu thinks it's also true for Vergil in Folkmore. He has his family. He has Mizu. All that he could want is to keep it. His family seems likely to stay, at the very least not to leave by their choice. Mizu set aside learning more on the train, both in the trial with Vergil and in the next with Rin, his pendant around her neck as a comfortable presence. If she truly could have learned something of value, it might have cut down the time she needs to stay by months. Yet it is less the months Mizu's given Vergil than the peace of mind, when she leaves, as much as she can give it. Mizu will not die here, so she can take the time to hurt him as little as possible when the time comes. Let him imagine some life where she steals Kai back from Mikio's lord and makes swords near a small village on the coast of Japan. Mizu has no idea what will happen once she achieves her revenge, but it's pleasant to imagine. She wants that for him, even when she cannot hold onto it herself. She wants for himβ
She messes up a kanji and startles herself a little. Ink once set down cannot be fixed, strokes taken are what they are. Mistakes are mistakes. Mizu sets hers aside and traces the brushstrokes again, properly this time. Her handwriting isn't much. She's forged more knives than written letters. She's written more in the last year, notes on England, than she ever has back in Japan. None of it focused on beauty like scholars might care about. Writing on Vergil, even with her fingers, comes with greater care than any of her notes. That it might look good if it were done with ink.
"Have you ever submerged yourself in the ocean?" Mizu asks, "It's a different sort of peace than the comfort of this hot soak."
Vergil need not know what the character was meant to look like to know that Mizu's made a mistake when she does. The stutter in her movement followed by the repetition, the correction are enough to give it away. It calls to mind when he's allowed Mizu to hold Mirage Edge, particularly that first time. Already by then, Mizu had memorized his movements so well, but she was tired from their prior sparring. And so, mistakes appeared. But Mizu corrected them smoothly until they became too numerous that she clearly felt it best to discontinue and avoid harming her form. So, to that end, it really is not a surprise that Mizu would take the time to correct her invisible writing against his skin. As she says, everything is ultimately for her art. Even something as simple as this, she needs to apply the same level of discipline. But he does find it curious that she made the mistake in the first place. He tilts his head slightly in silent curiosity, but ultimately chooses not to ask. If she wanted him to know or felt ready to acknowledge it, Mizu would say it. She does not tend to shy from speaking what's on her mind even unprompted.
"I haven't," he says while trying to remember when last in his own world, he was near enough to an ocean where he would have possessed the opportunity. It would not have been any sooner than before Nero was born by his estimation, when he chose to stay on Fortuna's island for longer than initially planned. After that, he either was without a will of his own or not his whole self each time he'd been near the water. Vergil brushes aside the thought, such things being inappropriate for where he is presently. He contents himself instead with idly tracing the gentle, subtle curve of Mizu's side as he remembers she once compared him to the ocean. He hadn't understood what she meant at the time considering all the ways the ocean could be perceived, some of which appear to be direct contradictions to one another. "I'm not surprised to find you enjoy it though. I've only known you to occasionally struggle with retaining your focus in Cruel Summer."
Not to say that she allows for it to leave her for long. Even without her favored element, Mizu does not lose sight of a battle, be it a friendly spar or otherwise. But there are significantly fewer options afforded to her there when it comes to seeking out that cool sensation.
Mizu's future looms before them, a nebulous shadowy figure, but she turns away from it so that it does not spoil everything, the wonderful night. If it sours part of it for her, better it only affects her than Vergil as well. Yet even for her own sake, she wants to turn away from it and build a memory she can carry with her. There's nothing spectacular in the moment, save the fact that this happy an evening is nothing spectacular.
Her fingers continue, tracing over the same small stretch of skin, so the flow from character to character is correct. It's different to write on a thigh than the curve of an arm. She knows that, yet better to practice here than to pull herself away from him. Vergil traces her skin as well, and Mizu wonders what her skin would look like with his poetry spreading across it. The lettering is hard to imagine, even though he's shared passages. Horizontal where she expects it to be vertical. The shapes unfamiliar and foreign. Yet she understands even better now why someone would want to experience it, though Mizu cannot imagine it having the same meaning with a stranger.
She remembers her fight against a demon in Cruel Summer, one Vergil watched. It's true that grounding herself was harder, something that truly could have cost her. Now she knows Vergil watched, she knows it wouldn't cost her her life (he wouldn't allow that), but as temperate as England promises to be, Mizu despises that weakness. She hasn't found a way to fully overcome it.
"I grew up outside of Kohama, a fishing village only worth noting on any map because of swordfather," Mizu shares. "Busy as I was helping swordfather, and I always went to bed exhausted, there was still time to go down to an isolated part of the shore, away from the village, strip my outer layers, and enter the waves. They pound against you as you stay above them, threatening to pull you down, but once you go underneath them, you become a part of them."
Mizu pauses because the words are hard to find. It's a feeling she's known so much of her life and never once put into words. They ebb away from her, and Mizu knows they will fall short, whatever she says. Vergil might turn to poetry, to the shape of someone else's words who has said what he feels better than he can (she's fairly sure that's part of what it is), but Mizu lacks those too. "I'm small, but I'm large. I float, but I'm grounded. It does not compare to anything else."
Her free hand makes a small motion to indicate that's only part of it. There's more she hasn't said, more she cannot say. She says what she can. With a smile, Mizu remembers again the foolish statement she told Vergil, the one he said was poetry. "Except you."
Vergil doesn't need to ask. He can already quite safely assume that to Mizu, this is a matter of trying to explain a fact rather than poetry. But that's not what he hears. She embraces the contradictions, how they serve her in equal measure by trying to express it through the arrangement of her words. If that does not qualify as poetry even at its most basic level and structure, then Vergil does not know poetry himself.
"Except me," he echoes in return. "You've said something similar once before. Although with fewer details that time."
And more importantly, he's experienced Mizu grounding herself through him much in the way she describes the waves of the ocean and the purpose they serve for her. So, even as her words may fail her, there is still some implicit understanding for what is left unsaid. Vergil isn't certain what exactly it is about him specifically that inspires that feeling in Mizu, but he's glad for it all the same. Because while only simplistic on its surface, Vergil does wish to return that sense of safety and intimacy that he feels with her. She deserves that much. He would actually argue she deserves more, but that much will still do for now at least. There's a brief pause before Vergil makes the decision to not just ponder upon it, but actually give voice to that desire.
"I know that between us, it is not of a transactional nature, but I am pleased nonetheless to know I am able to provide for you something that you seek out in return. It...has not been often in my life that I've wanted to reciprocate anything to anyone. Not anything good, in any case." He's typically avoided it, in fact. Taking what he needs and running before anything could be expected or he could find himself attached enough that he would protect the other's peace. "But I wish for you to feel as protected as I do with you."
Even if it is only to last so long as their time here does and not a moment longer as is the most realistic outcome and expectation, Vergil sees it as far better than nothing for the both of them. At least they shall both have this.
As little as her words convey her meaning now, she had even fewer before on the train. They lacked time, and Vergil gave her his pendant. Mizu's heard little about it, but she's seen how rarely and briefly Vergil parts with it. As someone of few possessions, it is cherished and held close. Yet Mizu did not want to part from him, though they would be forced apart, and he gave her the pendant. Only for a short time, yes, but he gave her part of himself. She wanted to give him something. She needed to release some of the feelings that roiled within her. Somehow those few words pleased him. She hopes that these ones express more what she meant, enough that Vergil can understand what isn't said.
The ocean will be there when she leaves and cold water when she leaves its shores, but Mizu wishes there were a way to bring some sense of Vergil with her. A pointless wish undoubtedly. She doubts they can bring any item of substance with them when they leave, that they must return as they left. It is why she plans to leave her sword to him, that it might not disappear entirely with her departure. No pendant, no glove, no bit of fabric of his will return with her. Only her memories of him, and that, Mizu suspects, will not be enough to ground her when she needs it. Not the way being with him does. Unfortunate, but nothing more could be expected.
Transactional describes most of Mizu's relations in her life. Even her most recent companions. Ringo wanted to be useful in return for Mizu teaching him. Taigen defended her so that they might have their duel. Akemi wanted Mizu to prevent her return to her father. Before that, her mother wanted to be taken care of and to have money for her drugs. Her marriage with Mikio was entirely based on the labor she would provide. Only swordfather. Now Vergil. For all she's taken, all she used Ringo and Taigen, Mizu and Vergil have long surpassed their terms as sparring partners. There is no ledger, no keeping track of how they have each helped each other. No value assigned and compared between what they do. Mizu receives so much from Vergil, and she wishes to provide for him some measure of such safety. Each moment he relaxes with her, trusts her, and lets her protect him, Mizu only wants to protect him more and to make that safety for him.
"I know because I feel the same," Mizu says. "I've long relaxed when you are here, knowing you'll sense anyone coming before I do. When I lack the cold, water, the ocean, even when I have those, I ground myself with you." Mizu pauses and grimaces a little. "I would have been hard pressed to keep my promise to you, not to search for clues to my fathers on the train, had you not come with me in the form of your pendant. No sooner did we part ways than I was in another world, one I then shared with Rin instead of you, when I was faced with the opportunity to force information from my father's business partner."
Mizu pauses and corrects herself.
"His business partner in that world, a man from Rin's history. He was in my grasp, and I could haveβ" she reaches up and rests her hand over Vergil's pendant or where it would lay, "I killed him and cut down that chance. You return me to myself, that I can choose and do what I decide. That may be the greatest form of protection, not to lose myself but to decide my own fate and make my way. In a fight. In my revenge. In my heart."
Mizu cannot explain why it has come to be that Vergil has near the same effect for her as the ocean and its shadows. It has saved her life more times than she can count. It matters. Perhaps more than the physical safety he provides with his mere presence.
"You are with me nearly every moment," Mizu admits, "when I forged the new steel for my blade, I made it from the brittle blade I first made, and I made it with the glove I stabbed the first time we sparred, and I made it with the jacket I destroyed with a grenade. You are in my sword."
Her cheeks and ears have flushed with color, but Mizu meets Vergil's gaze. Her fingers still against his leg, and she watches him and his reaction. It's been nearly a year, only a couple months shy, since she made her sword. He's been with her long before the first time they kissed. Mizu lacked the words or understanding then, but she knew it was the right choice at the time. It was needed. It would be impossible for Mizu not to feel protected when each swing of her sword carries it.
After Mizu confesses the materials of his that she used for reforging her blade, Vergil is quiet for a moment. It's possible for Mizu that his silence feels as though it stretches on and on, as Vergil also feels its length to stretch beyond what it is in reality. But sans moments of intense passion, neither Mizu nor Vergil have ever rushed to reach their responses to one another. They always permit the other to take their time no matter how long it may be even if the wait feels far too long in the moment. To that end, Vergil is somewhat vaguely apologetic to Mizu in leaving her waiting for his response after such an intimate confession. But what she says is great, and it is something that Vergil has no desire to simply accept as truth and ultimately gloss over it. It would be far too disrespectful to her, to her feelings, to what they've built together.
Vergil remembers their first spar still so clearly. Reflecting upon it, he can now see the first sparks of attraction beginning to fly between them that escaped his attention back then. Vergil was too distracted at the time with the fight itself. But more importantly, that fight was the one and only time that Vergil has ever yielded. The decision to concede the fight, however, had not been because he was on the verge of defeat. There's a fire that burns within Mizu, brought to the surface each time she wields a blade. It caught Vergil's attention from the beginning of that sparring match as it does even now, occasionally stirring other appetites within him at her displays of strength and skill. But that day, it had begun a wild, uncontrolled blaze, and Vergil realized quickly how such a beautiful, powerful thing within Mizu threatened to consume the swordsman before him. Even with as little personal investment as Vergil had in Mizu back then, when they barely knew each other, he knew he wanted to see that flame tempered. Leaving it as it was would only mean Mizu's eventual death upon returning home.
Back then, it was limits that Vergil set that forced Mizu to temper herself. Mizu chafed at every single one, of course, not hesitating to let her complaints or frustrations be known. It was no secret to Vergil that her compliance stemmed from a mild anxiety that Vergil would refuse her moving forward if she did not adhere to his additional rules. But still, she already felt it such a concession to accept dueling to the death was not allowed that she found his refusal if she was significantly injured still to be an unnecessary stipulation. She was little more than a petulant child huffing and puffing over his unwillingness to part from her until he knew for certain that she tended enough to her wounds that Vergil felt comfortable with leaving Mizu on her own.
But Mizu kept his ruined glove, stained with his blood and useless as an article of clothing. And she followed the rules, and sought out the next sparring match as soon as she could. She spent Lore to give herself an accelerated healing factor so that she could face Vergil again sooner, and she returned to where he'd discarded his ruined coat to collect it. And she ultimately used him to bring balance into her blade, reflective of a balance Vergil has wanted for her before his feelings had grown to be what they are and what he hoped their sparring matches could teach her if nothing else was to be learned or gained from them.
When Vergil meets Mizu's gaze, there's a softness in his eyes as he's unable to contain the swell of emotion to just himself. He knows the weight and meaning of that choice, to include pieces of him in the process of reforging her blade into something stronger, that can serve its purpose better. And the fact that she made that decision before... There is so little good that Vergil can claim to have a hand in. His choices have typically wrought destruction and ruin as unintended consequences, but ones Vergil has done little if anything at all to prevent them all the same. He cannot begin to put into wordsβborrowed or his ownβjust how immense the feeling that follows her admission. Mizu is not the only one with a bit more color in her face or tips of her ears than there was a moment ago.
Instead of trying (and likely failing) to put it into any words, Vergil leans forward to kiss Mizu instead. It does not lack in passion, but it is not a heated, rushed expression of it. Rather, much like how they settled into this hot bath, it allows for the comfortable weight of their feelings for one another to blanket over them slowly in this space they've made and protect together. Vergil's hand at her side remains, keeping an arm around her, as his other hand covers Mizu's over his half of the amulet.
In keeping with how long it has taken Mizu to share what she has done, Vergil needs time to understand it. All that's happened since she forged the blade only adding and shaping the reflection on the act itself. It is such a personal matter, to forge her own steel and blade again, that Mizu did not know how to explain it then. She feared any attempt would only push Vergil away. Better to face him with her own blade and to fight the better for it than to explain it. He's lived first hand how her sword has changed her, the way Mizu's seen the difference between Vergil fighting with Yamato and Mirage Edge.
Vergil was always worthy of her true blade. Her concern was herself and the blade she'd make. Their conversation about it helped, as well the way they met blades. Vergil's rules bristled, but they never came from disrespecting her as an opponent. No matter that the more she's learned and seen and even experienced in memory, Mizu knows he holds himself back and could press her even harder. Yet he enjoys it and finds it worthwhile. He looked after her when he did not need to. He made himself safe, that Mizu could push so hard she fell unconscious and trust him to mind the boundaries of her clothes and body. Vergil wants her to feel as safe with him, as he does her? It is a rare instance that Mizu allows herself to fight so hard as to lose consciousness without it being to the death. He's had trust from the beginning built somehow over past wrongs and common ground.
Her shortcomings, her flaws, her body's frailties, all of it was accepted. Swordfather's always insisted that an impurity in the right place is a quality, but those words never penetrated so deeply as for Mizu to see it in herself. Still, she struggled with that. She struggles to this day. Her inclination to make a sword too brittle, not too soft. To be too hard, inflexible. Mizu's hardly reached some remarkable best form of herself she could ever be, only a better swordsman than she has been. That was her goal from the start with sparring Vergil. Mizu simply didn't understand all the ways he'd see her to that goal. No that she's done. She's better, yes, but she can be better yet. Like she's a living blade not yet forged and completed.
The sword is the soul of a samurai. Mizu is no samurai, but her sword is her soul, the most intimate part of herself. Vergil is a part of it, a simple statement of fact yet one that says more than words can ever say. Words that fail Vergil as well. He leans in, and Mizu releases some of the tension that built waiting. Her fingers tighten around the pendant and press into the skin beneath them. Mizu kisses Vergil back, words not fully capturing her feelings as well, and awareness of the room around them, the cabin, and the snow beyond fade away, such that someone could climb the stairs with Mizu none the wiser. Yet none the more in danger because she leaves that to Vergil.
She hadn't realized how much she wanted Vergil to know about her sword without a sense of how to tell him or when or even perhaps why she did not wish to give him her sword when he gave her his pendant. It would give him part of her, yes, but it would rob her of him too. It was not the time to explain, not in depth, and her words felt so short a measure of comfort compared to his. Not a competition, not a price to be paid, and not as necessary perhaps when she was the one more tempted by the trial. So she takes Vergil as hers and part of her and gives herself in return in the kiss. It is not so different a position than all the times he's carried her after sparring, the difference in knowing. Vergil knows better the depth of Mizu's feelings, the arc of those feelings, and Mizu safe as ever and accepted.
Vergil kisses Mizu sweetly and slowly until its end, and when he does eventually part his lips from hers, he does not stray far. He nuzzles her in a familiar gesture of affection before kissing the corner of her lips. He cares for little else beyond her even when not kissing her, his world narrowing down to their little points of contact and yet not seeming the smaller for it all the same. He knows it's likely untrue, but he likes to imagine their hearts beating in unison. How else could such a feeling within his chest be shared with another if that were not the case?
"I loved and guessed at you. You construed me, and loved me for what might or might not be," he recites quietly, only borrowing a few lines from the otherwise brief poem. "Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong. For verily love knows not 'mine' or 'thine.'"
The words still feel as though they fall short of fully reflecting all that he feels, but they are close as he is liable to find in his own or another's in being able to speak of it. A love so accepting and so deep that it becomes one, and in turn, by sharing it, they are one as well. To that end, it does not matter what is to become of them or how inevitable it is that they shall leave this place one day and without the other. It is as they promised to each other, that they shall always belong to the other. There is no amount of time or distance that will unmake any of this. Not even heartache nor grief can replace it.
Vergil dips his head to the faded mark, placing a few light kisses before taking the skin into his mouth. He takes his time in darkening it again, alternating between his efforts in bruising the skin and teasing it with the light graze of his teeth or brushing over it with his lips. It's a different tempo than when he had left the mark the first time, more akin to the massage he'd given her than a ravenous hunger wherein the point is more for her to linger in each sensation.
Her soul has been before him for nearly a year, yet with all his demonic power, Vergil was none the wiser to his own presence within it nor the power that provides, power that cannot be detected by a demon. Not in the sword. Perhaps in Mizu, though she suspects not for the complete lack of wariness her demonic opponent had for her in the arena. She has no proof but suspects they'd carry more respect for Vergil or any of his family. So few people have recognized her power that it is no matter, and Mizu hardly minds being underestimated. That no one can sense Vergil and his influence on her by looking at her sword is their loss and potential downfall.
Vergil speaks words that may begin as his but carry on into phrases she believes he borrows. They do not all make sense to her, but the final sentiment is simple and clear. There is no ledger or accounting between them. They do not act because they owe each other as much love as the other has given. They love, and they both act accordingly. Where they cannot communicate themselves, where they might not understand everything, it does not matter. The ease with which Mizu does not judge what Vergil offers or ever feels he comes up short, he feels the same of her.
Mizu sighs softly as he pays further attention to the lightly sore stretch of skin. It's already fading, it was, before this moment. Her head tilts to make it easier, and she holds tightly to him, tight enough to bruise in her own right. Bruises Mizu knows she won't see, faded back into the empty stretches of his skin. That hunger grows patiently in the back of her mind. It's soft attention, for all it bruises again, and Mizu treasures it. She waits, and it's some time before she pulls herself higher, her chest leaving the warm water. Mizu tugs his head farther down and taps the skin hard over bone in the middle of her chest. "That's where your pendant lay that day, and I would carry you with me there again."
It rested against her bindings, but fresh marks will lie closer to her.
Even as he continues to attend to the freshened mark, Vergil does not impede her movement in rising further out of the water. He only ceases his attention along the small stretch of sensitive skin when Mizu directs his head between her breasts. There's only a brief moment of hesitation, but only for the novelty of the location. He's left his marks along her neck and shoulders, dipping low to her collar bone. Her back has been peppered in the shapes of his fingertips, and her thighs teased until the heel pressing into his back signals she will no longer abide his nonsense. But this portion of her body? Vergil has a tendency to... Well, neglecting it would be an inaccurate description for it, but he certainly does not have the tendency to prioritize it when pleasuring her. Mizu is not exactly indifferent to it, but there are other parts of her body that seem to thrill her more when he provides them with attention.
But it's only a brief moment of hesitation before he begins to oblige her request. Vergil's hand falls from hers and he disentangles their legs as he licks away the rivulets and beads of water that linger upon the canvas of her skin. With his freed hand, Vergil swings her legs back over his lap while his hand at her side slips to the small of her back and scoops her into his lap. As is usual, Vergil lifts Mizu as though she weighed nothing at all, a sensation likely heightened even further by the more weightless motion through the water. Mizu does not need any sort of help in remaining seated higher above the water even with a tub as deep as the one she has here, but that was not the point. The air just above the water and the air throughout the bathroom are not exactly cold and absolutely not the sort that she often seeks out, but it is still cooler than the water itself, and especially where their bodies meet one another. It's enough to feel a difference, to draw more subtle attention to the sensation of his mouth and breath on her skin. Vergil grips at her thigh firmly while his hand at her back adds some support to the way she must slightly twist to provide him access.
It's a bit more work to leave a mark there than his favored locations for marks on her skin, but Vergil is nothing if not patient and persistent with the task. Just as he had when freshening the mark on her neck, he alternates between sucking hard at her skin and teasing it balancing accomplishing what she's asked with allowing her to enjoy the process from start to finish. By the time he finishes, the spot is redder than the rest of her skin that's been heated by the water. Vergil is certain it should darken and bruise like every other mark by then and allows his affections to her skin to wander then. He turns his head slightly aside so that he is able to trail kisses over the swell of her breast before drifting over her heart and ending with the round of her shoulder. Resting a cheek against her shoulder then, Vergil looks up at her the best he can.
"Wherever you will it, I will always mark my love upon you. As with all things of mine that I've willingly surrendered to you, it is yours to claim as you will."
With ever remarkable ease, Vergil adjusts their positions to do as she asks. She no longer needs to lift herself up, and Mizu relaxes in Vergil's hold, trusting him to have her. Her hand slides down around his shoulders and holds tight more from the urge to do so than any need to support herself. Her eyes close, and memory mixes with the moment. She still feels his pendant under her hand, and she remembers the weight of it on her chest. The feeling she could not let him down so long as she had it. A demand and a reality.
Given the location, the stretch of skin over bone, Mizu surprises herself with how much she enjoys receiving the mark, not only the thought and conclusion of it. Goosebumps spread across her shoulders, and Mizu nearly whines when he stops. The continued attention defeating the sound in her throat. She breathes a little harder and looks down, though his face doesn't come easily into focus. Instead it's a warmth against her shoulder, again warmer than the air around them. Surprising how she nearly shivers with how warm it is.
Mizu lets go of his pendant to run a finger over the tender skin he's left her. She traces the rough shape of the pendant and smiles. "I always want to carry you with me, so much even my sword is not always enough. I want more," Mizu says. Relaxed as she is, a little more slips out. "It feels odd when I have not a single mark from you on my skin."
Even with multiple marks from Vergil, Mizu feels that strong urge for more, some need she doesn't look too closely at. Yet the ghost lingers, the desire to carry him with her more than memories and the connection they have. Something more than her mind and, given her sword, her soul. He's before her, so it's a foolish thought, and Mizu sets it aside without more consideration.
It would be a difficult thing to resist smiling when she confesses to wanting so much, to wanting more. So, Vergil puts no effort into it, and allows himself to be simply pleased by Mizu's greediness. He doesn't need the confirmation from her that she desires the physical marks of his affection upon her. If Mizu did not like it, she simply wouldn't allow for it. Or if she was at least willing to entertain the act of creating them, but did not wish for the bruises to linger, she would use her healing factor to make it as though they never were. But he still likes to hear her say it.
"Your attempts have not been unwelcome," he says, the hand upon her thigh tracing along the outside of it to her knee before returning along the top of it until he very nearly meets her pelvis. It's a slow, soothing touch. Vergil knows it often frustrates Mizu to no end that his own healing factor prevents her from leaving such physical reminders of her affection, proof of their connection to one another. Would that Vergil could, he would slow his own healing for the sole purpose of allowing her marks to linger for longer. But his ability is not like hers. He cannot target specific injuries and leave the rest alone. His body naturally seeks to heal the most significant damage. He would not likely be in the position to allow for her marks if his body were to ignore them. But he does still enjoy the sensations just the same as her if nothing else. "But I am not without you simply because you have not been able to leave a visible mark. I have your scent and you occupy no small part of my mind when we are apart."
Whether in the heat of passion or with slow determined dedication, Vergil always responds to Mizu's attempts to mark him. It encourages her, when so often the bruises fade before she gets a proper look at them. Smooth unmarked skin beneath her fingers, her lips. Like she was never there. Mizu doesn't care about power or legacy or remembrance in history, but to leave a mark on someone that matters to her? Not a way to honor or greatness or the next high. Her, seen and understood and making a difference. It stunned her to learn Master Eiji considers he made his best sword when she was his apprentice. Even if no one else knows or understands, those swords are out in the world, a testament to that. With Vergilβ
Mizu sighs, "Scent fades so quickly."
His better sense of smell extends the time he carries her, but it's a matter of days. New odors and scents overwhelm old ones. There's a reason she wears his clothes when he's gone. Well, more than one, but that is one of them. Especially when she visits Cruel Summer and comes away smelling so terribly of demon even she sees need of a bath, no matter how recently she's washed herself. Mizu doesn't understand why or how the fighting pits have such a steady stream of demons from Vergil's world, but she's gotten better at fighting them. Individually. She isn't yet prepared for crowds of them the way she can handle groups of men.
"What is my occupation of your mind like?" Mizu asks. The only place she may last and one that will change unavoidably one day. It cannot be helped.
He's not certain if it's frustration or disappointment that she speaks with when she notes that scent is not as long-lasting as she would like. Whichever it isβassuming that it is either of themβVergil finds the presence of such an emotion difficult to ignore. Vergil's smile fades a little upon hearing it. He likes to think that he does well in navigating Mizu's emotions when they arise. Their similar temperaments allows him to have a better sense of what may alleviate the distress or discomfort she's experiencing from them. But this is not one that Vergil knows even in the vaguest sense could be helpful for her in soothing whatever it is she feels over the impermanence.
So, he continues tracing her skin and he answers her question.
"It varies, depending on the circumstances," he says, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to her shoulder. "For example, on mornings I wake uncertain if I will see you that day, I wish I was with you so we could waste hours of the morning in whatever manner we pleased. But the closest I can be is imagining the weight and warmth of you on the bed beside me."
Vergil pulls back from resting his head against her shoulder to look at her properly. It's plain that he is looking at her that same way before they got into the bath together, but Vergil also holds in his mind's eye the image of her that he describes.
"The gentle sound of your breath and that look of peace on your face when you're still sound asleep, neither of which I possess the heart to ever willingly disturb because if I did not know it was a gift you've unwittingly given to me countless times, I would think it mere fantasy for all the calm and peace I feel within myself." The hand at her back slips away in favor of intertwining fingers with one of her hands. "But if I know I am to see you, I've no need for such visions to act as comfort in staving off a lonely morning. I've all my thoughts of what is to come even if it is a great test of my patience to have to wait and fill my time with other things between waking and when I see you again because all I can think of is what I wish to do with you, to say to you, to share with you.
"Mizu, you are among my first and last thoughts each day. There are reminders of you for me littered throughout each day I am not at your side that I'm sure you would find foolish. But you bring me peace and happiness each time I think of you, and I think of you often."
Familiar as Mizu is with her own thoughts of Vergil when they are apart, thoughts that only fade when her focus is so intense nothing but her current actions fill her mind, Vergil's descriptions are not that great a surprise. Her bed feels cold and vast when she wakes up alone in it, and she rises immediately, instead of the many hours Vergil gets her to stay when he's there. Without him, it's simply a place to sleep and to take the necessary rest to get to the business of her day. Nothing special.
It is indeed a lonely morning. Those weeks at Amrita, whatever else they did, introduced her to them by spending every night together. That might have continued afterward, save that Dante stayed with Vergil. Then Nero arrived. Mizu will not tear him apart from his family nor ask him to choose between them. A fool's errand, even if she were so selfish of him and his happiness to consider trying to keep him all to herself. That would never work, and if it did, in the end, it would only leave him alone. Far better that Vergil has people, the life he came to Folkmore to seek, with or without her.
Mizu does not understand how he can think so well of her, how thoughts of her can bring him peace and happiness without the dark shadow of separation that waits for them. It is of her making without any need of the fox spirit's interference to heighten the drama into a tragedy.
"I am not that good," Mizu declares, "You wonderful idiot."
She pulls him in for a kiss, hard and demanding. Demanding what, Mizu isn't certain, only that she needs Vergil and something from him. No, perhaps it's to give something to him. She breaks it off with a grunt of frustration to kiss and bite her way down his jaw and to his neck. There, Mizu makes yet another attempt at leaving her mark on him. She sucks and bites and pulls on his skin. Over and over, she gives herself to the effort, but the mark doesn't stay. It never stays. She leans her face into his neck, eyes damp. That image he painted will disappear after she does. Mizu knows it.
Mizu kisses him harder than he would expect, leaving his kiss in return likely a little clumsier than she would prefer. There is passion in the kiss, but there is something else he feels in the intensity behind her kiss that Vergil cannot name, cannot identify. Except, he thinks, he has heard similar talk before. Not as heated, no, and certainly gentler, but...
Mizu breaks the kiss with a noise that sounds near to a growl, but Vergil does not stop her. He does not, however, sink into the feeling of her mouth against his skin. There is too much disconnect between the act and himself, between Mizu and him for him to feel even the harshest press of her teeth as happening to his own skin. For all that Mizu has been confused regarding his thoughts of and feelings for her, never has she had such force behind her refutation of it. Not even when he called her beautiful had there been such an energy behind it.
He finds it... he finds it so difficult to understand. Months ago, he had taken her on the floor of her living room, and in that fit of passion sprung forth a greater intimacy than either of them had ever really known. Vergil let the words slip from him as quietly as he could for fear of a reaction like this one. But he received its opposite then.
She buries her face in his neck and Vergil wraps his arms firmly around her. He doesn't believe it will make a difference to how she's feeling, but Vergil doesn't know what else to do, how to possibly soothe what she's feeling. He considers it briefly, but declaring his feelings firmly and true would likely only produce a worse result. Mizu knows how he feels, and to some extent, that appears to be the problem. Asking her to explain it to him doesn't even cross his mind as a possibility. Teasing her even gently or at his own expense just seems cruel. So, he is left without any words. Not his own. Not borrowed. Useless as it feels to him, a warm embrace and silent patience is all he can offer.
The warm water fails to ground Mizu. Her emotions roil inside her, turbulent and unrelenting. Guilt and pain and sadness well up overwhelming. Mizu holds onto Vergil tightly and doesn't let go. She doesn't want to let go of him, not now, not in the future, not when she leaves. Yet she must. She will. That's always been how they will end. She knows it. He knows it. Damn well, the fox spirit knows it. He holds her tight, and Mizu holds onto him.
She feels his heartbeat against her, and Mizu focuses on the steady beat. It slowly calms her until her breathing feels less ragged. Until she feels more like herself. More at ease. As foolish as it is, it's him. It's Vergil grounding her as he's grounded her so many times before. The thought Vergil will come to hate her or despise her or wish he hadn't known her, once she is gone, continues to come to mind. It may be true, and there's nothing she can do about that. She's been clear about her goals, about her plans, from the very beginning.
Mizu continues to lean against him, and unlike when they spar or make love, she feels small. "I'm sorry," Mizu says softly, "That wasn't your fault."
Vergil deserves better. The least Mizu can do is treat him right while she's here. His feelings and thoughts toward her are wonderful, better than she deserves, but his and his to have. Mizu will not pretend either of them are perfect. Vergil's done terrible things, but he's never done them to her. He's never treated her anything less than well.
"Did you ever plan to stay," Mizu asks, "in Fortuna?"
Vergil doesn't need nor want an apology from Mizu, but he does not dismiss it all the same. He recognizes that it's part of Mizu's reassurance. While he feels strongly that he shouldn't need nor want that either, he does. Vergil is soothed when she says the reaction is not his fault, the implicit message being that he's done nothing wrong. It's easier to believe her now than it was over the noodles. Or, well, it's easier to accept in the moment than it was that night. Vergil isn't certain if it's because of that experience, or if he's just simply grown a little more confident that his overtures of love and affection are not wrong. No matter how uncomfortable such vulnerability may make either one of them, Vergil is certain that his feelings are not wrong. He just may perhaps misstep from time to time in how he expresses them, and that can be wrong albeit not intentionally so.
At her question, Vergil's gaze darts away to elsewhere in the bathroom. He has no desire to lie to Mizuβnever has and never willβbut the answer comes coupled with shame and guilt. It's not something that he allows himself to dwell upon, but that is the only way he finds peace from it given that the unintended consequences from his choice irrevocably shaped the rest of his son's life. Never mind the lingering question of whether or not Beatrice's life was cut short as a consequence of his absence. There is nothing that can ever truly make the guilt and shame with that leave him entirely with both of those things weighing upon him.
"No," he admits with his next breath. "I was merely there to gather what information I could about my father."
Her apology only came for Vergil's benefit, so he'd know not to blame himself. Mizu's sorry to hurt him, even in those moments, when he might blame himself. It isn't his fault, not tonight and not when she leaves. It's the least she can do to make sure he knows that. Mizu didn't apologize to Ringo because she wasn't in the wrong. The people she's wronged, what few of them she identifies, are dead, and the dead do not need, nor likely want, her apologies. She did what she did. She must live by her choices. It's not entirely unlike leaving swordfather, except Mizu knows Vergil will not ask her to stay.
She watches Vergil's reaction to her question, the pain he feels clear cut. A decision he would change, given what he knows now, given who he is now. He didn't know what would happen as a consequence of his decision. Vergil left Nero's mother behind after what, Mizu's reasonably sure, they both knew was a relationship that would not last. Everything Vergil's told her says the woman was smart. She knew what she was doing, and she made her choices too. Vergil made the choice in line with his goals, in line with what the two of them knew their relationship to be.
Vergil regrets it. Mizu feels worse in that moment, as she traces the smooth skin of his neck, already no mark marring it. He regrets it, however, because of Nero primarily, what happened to him. Perhaps to a lesser extent, whatever happened to the woman he loved. Those aren't concerns Mizu has to contend with. She cannot leave him pregnant, and Vergil is powerful enough to live and to survive on his own without her. He even has Dante and Nero watching his back, should some threat truly emerge. It's not the same situation, no matter that Mizu is merely here to gather what information she can about her fathers.
Mizu cups Vergil's face and kisses his forehead. That he made a fair decision in that moment matters little to him, and Mizu cannot wipe those pained feelings away from him. "You don't know what would have happened if you stayed. Only what happened when you left."
They aren't meant to be absolution. Only the truth. "You were hunted, were you not? You could have drawn that attention to them."
Because the truth, so often, is terrible. Mizu understands only having bad decisions to make, one or the other. She sighs. What happened to Vergil and Dante didn't happen to Nero. That's something.
Mizu speaks sense. There is nothing incorrect about what she says. He has no way of knowing what would have been had he stayed. Vergil already possessed doubts about what sort of father he might have been to Nero had he been there from the beginning even before he knew of Nero's true upbringing. Those doubts, when he imagines what could have been, do not exactly abate even now. For all that he believes he would have loved Nero the moment he knew of his existence to the best that Vergil was capable of loving someone else, there is no telling that it would have been enough or right for Nero. And that is nothing to say of what would have become of him and Nero's mother. There's a good chance they wouldn't have worked out long-term. After all, they were young, and Vergil has now way of knowing how raising Nero would have impacted them. And Mizu is correct that eventually, the demons sent to hunt him would have caught up. There was no guarantee that he could have protected them both when they did, and that he would not relive the same nightmare again. It was that fear, after all, that made him run in the end.
"I know, Mizu," he says, harsher than he means and jerking his face free from her hold. Vergil does not mean to lash out at her. Even if Mizu is probing at old wounds and regrets, he knows there not to be malicious intent behind it. But knowing that does not make it a less of a sore subject. "But what does knowing change? I did not plan to stay in Fortuna, but that does not mean part of me did not want to stay. It was the firstβ"
Vergil cuts himself off, looking away from Mizu with a slight shake of his head. He's quiet a moment, brow furrowed in a combination of frustration and anger at himself for his past decisions, and his seeming inability to convey why this regret is one he cannot reason with.
"After the attack on my family, I never once thought to stay. Not once did I feel the temptation. Even knowing the likelihood that the families who took me in suffered a terrible fate for looking after me, I never looked back. I do not now." Vergil looks at Mizu in a brief glance, unable to bring himself to fully meet her eyes. "But I will always look back at that decision with regret, Mizu. I had a chance for everything that I truly wanted even beyond my conscious mind. And I threw it away because I was too afraid of losing it. I left without saying anything because I feared I would not be strong enough to walk away otherwise, but I feared being too weak to stay.
"And yet, that choice changed nothing. It merely sealed her fate. Doomed Nero to grow up more alone than he should have ever been."
Vergil does not understand how it is Nero forgives him. Even knowing that Vergil did not know of his existence is not enough to absolve him of the hand he had in Nero's upbringing, in believing himself not to be enough and unworthy of even the barest scrap of love. Vergil does not think if their positions were reversed, he would have the ability to forgive so easily. He certainly doesn't even now.
Logic does not batter back emotions, and Vergil's response reflects that. Mizu lowers her hands and does not hold onto Vergil when he does not want it. It only feels fair that he should say her name that way. How different can it feel to be the one left behind? That's not what Vergil's upset about, but she can imagine frustration that does not aim at himself. There will be time for that. Vergil's hurt, still, and there may be no hurt for this injury if even Nero cannot mend it. Certainly Mizu cannot fix such a wound.
She listens. Of course part of him wished to stay. Mizu assumed as much from the way he spoke about his time there, about the relationship he forged. It would be stranger if such feeling did not form in his heart, an impurity to his purpose. It could make his resolution bitter, or it could make him stronger. From all Mizu knows of Vergil, she'd say it was an impurity in the right place. She could even go so far as to say it's what saved him from shattering a second time, what allowed him to pull himself together again and become who he is.
His need for survival may have doomed families who did nothing more than take in and care for an orphaned child, but Mizu feels no pity for them. By Vergil's own words, people stopped taking him in once he got a little older. People whose kindness does not extend to an older child are not that good. Their deaths do not sit with her, not even if every last family that helped Vergil died. The shame is that those who refused to help him didn't die as well.
Both options Vergil faced sparked fear of weakness. Too weak to leave, too weak to stay. He knew the target he'd place on Beatrice's back if he stayed, and he thought he might be too weak to protect her. The very issue Mizu raised by suggesting he could have brought demons to her. She grimaces a little because she did not mean to call Vergil weak. The fear was logical, however. All his father's strength failed to prevent the calamity that orphaned Vergil and Dante. He sought that power, to be as powerful as his father, to be more powerful. How powerful does he need to be to feel capable of protecting those he loves? Mizu isn't sure, but Nero has power aplenty in his own right.
"Regret it," Mizu says and accepts that he will. "So long as you don't let that regret drive you to further regrets. Make it strengthen you, not weaken you."
Mizu should have seen through her mother from the moment she saw the woman alive and well. She abandoned Mizu and never came searching for her. The woman only saw Mizu back to health for the security and regular access to drugs it could bring. She never should have married Mikio for her mother's sake. Perhaps if she saw through her, Mizu would spend her life wondering how it might have been. If it might have been what she wanted, but she knows now it wasn't. It never could have been.
If only she and Vergil had the opportunity outside Folkmoreβ
No point wishing for what she saw on the train, that perfect life that offered her everything. Mizu is not the sort of person who can get what she wants.
Vergil keeps his gaze averted from Mizu for a moment or two after she speaks. His face turns towards her, but his eyes are slower to follow. He knows he has no reason to feel shame before her. Mizu has never once offered harsh or unfair judgment when it comes to his past choices, no matter the consequences or lives lost. Still, he finds it harder in that moment to feel that Mizu truly sees the whole of the man before her. That she can truly love him without exception, can feel safe enough with him that her deepest, darkest secrets can be entrusted to him even knowing the destruction and ruin he's left in his wake time and time again. But Vergil brings his gaze up to hers, and he does not see all that his guilt and shame says he ought to see looking back at him.
"I choose to stay with you, do I not?" he ask, quietly. Even when he questions whether he has the proper strength to stay, to be what she needs him to be, Vergil has yet to leave when she's asked him to stay. In fact, it's unlikely that he would leave barring her asking him to do as much.
Vergil does not give her a chance to answer, leaning up to press his lips to hers in a bruising, insistent kiss.
A less flawed person, someone who hasn't lived through the bloodshed, rejection, and ambition Mizu has and does, could not be trusted to care for her. All it took for Ringo to turn away was failure to protect someone he felt a connection with. All it took for Mikio was for her to be a better fighter than him. It took nothing at all for her mother, for it was never thereβonly money. Vergil has no expectation that Mizu protect Nero (no doubt both father and son would scoff at the idea), not even should she soundly defeat one or both of them. Vergil will not so readily abandon her, has never abandoned her to see to her own survival. What mistakes he will still make, they are no betrayal of her.
Mizu only starts to smile, a bittersweet ache in her heart, before Vergil kisses her. Until she needs to leave, Mizu has him, and she parts her lips to let him in. He's here in her home, here in the privacy of her chambers, here in her heart. She trusts him with it all. Her doubts are entirely her own, in herself. Whatever the future brings, she can give herself entirely to Vergil tonight. Perhaps not trust herself to hold him and to take him tonight, too much balanced on the edge of a blade, but she will find a way while here. He deserves that safety. The safety she feels, even now this very moment, with him.
Mizu kisses Vergil back and hopes he feels that safety he's made for her rather than the shame he carries. Everything he might have wished to be for Beatrice, he is for her.
He's claimed her mouth dozens if not hundreds of times by now, but still when Mizu parts her lips for him, he is still just as reverent as the first time. What she gives is what he takes. Nothing more. Nothing less. As has been their way from the very beginning even when playing by the fox spirit's rules. One his hands rises from where it had been wrapped around her, tracing up along the line of her neck until he can hold her face, subtly altering the angle of the kiss.
Vergil kisses her until they're both left just slightly breathless. Their lips barely part from one another, enough that they share in the breath. Almost magnetically, he's drawn to kiss her again, although it's briefer, smaller kisses that still allow for the both of them to catch their breath.
"I love you."
The words are spoken softly and quietly between little kisses, but not in the way he spoke them the first time. That first time, his quiet speaking had been out of hopes that perhaps she would not hear, that he could retain plausible deniability to avoid rejection of such a direct statement his feelings. The quiet way of saying them now is because they are words meant for her and her alone even though there is no one else around to hear them. Vergil does not make a habit of saying them often even after having braved saying them that first time, but he says them now freely. They are feelings that he would have divorced himself from in his youth, yet he is willing to embrace here and now with her.
Mizu continues to kiss Vergil, slowing the recovery of her breath, but she does not care. Times like these, one feels more important than the other. A shiver crawls up her spine with his words, and perhaps breathing is worthwhile to hear them. She hasn't needed to hear them to know them since the first time Vergil spoke them. They pulled the blindfold from her eyes for what Vergil showed her since the first time they were together. Once aware, she sees his love all the time. Spending the night with her. Letting her wear his clothes. Cooking for her. Coming over for the holiday he thought mattered to her. Sparring her letting up as little as before, not treating her as delicate. Just tonight, the way she's on his mind every day.
He didn't have to say them again, he doesn't ever, but greedy, Mizu breathes them in. They are soft and gentle but firm and sure of themselves. No matter that Mizu just made a fool of herself in front of him. It takes a moment to remember that came not long from baring her soul and admitting she's taken representation of him, of the relationship they started, into her sword. That too was tonight. She feels raw and tender but secure in his arms. She kisses him again and again.
His love feels so solid and secure a thing, hers fragile and waiting to break. It hasn't broken yet, and Mizu knows how she feels. She knows how it feels to hear it. So despite how inadequate it feels, it's what she can offer, all she can offer. Her love. With her arms wrapped around him, Mizu says as softly, "I love you."
An imperfect brittle thing, as hideous as she is, yet somehow he makes that beautiful. He sees something in it.
Close as they are and with one of his arms still wrapped so firmly around her, he feels that shiver work its way up her spine at his words. It pleases him more than words can possibly express, and he truly has no burning need for her to say anything back to him. That reaction alone, the kisses that follow, are enough. But Mizu says the words back, and he aches sweetly in hearing them again. Some part of him feels so greedy to be so eager in hearing them once more, but Vergil cannot deny how each beat of his heart afterward feels all the fuller for it. No piece had truly been missingβhe's not ignorant of Mizu's feelings even if she also just as rarely speaks of them as him, and certainly not after her confession tonightβbut there is still something found in her words that brings about such joy. Impossible as it may be, it feels a return to innocence for as much as Vergil trusts her, trusts her love to be warm and kind and protective. It's things Vergil knows Mizu would never describe herself to be, but it's parts of her he sees even when she cannot. What mistakes she's made or chosen harm she's inflicted on others does not negate that, does not change the fact that's who she chooses to be for him.
Vergil's next kiss is more earnest, more wanting than the smaller ones that precede it. He nips lightly at her lower lip until her lips part for him once more, his tongue meeting hers. He sighs, pleased, as his hand leaves her cheek for between her shoulder blades in almost a mirror of how she so often touches him. Vergil's other arm loosens so that his hand comes to her lap. Fingers drag along her thigh until he reaches her knee, nudging at it to part from the other and grant him access to touch her.
Before she loses thoughts to his touch, something Mizu senses will come, she tilts her head ever so slightly back to where Vergil held it. It's almost nothing. Mizu meets his kiss but lets him kiss her as deeply as he wishes. She doesn't hold her weight but leans back against his hand. All of it trust and love and anticipation. Three things she always longs for with Vergil: sparring, snuggling, and sex. Tonight has been heavy on snuggling, much to her enjoyment, and the bath is no place to spar, not even grappling. She smiles against his face, and a very different sort of shudder runs through her.
Mizu parts her knees as much as she can and stay in his lap. She resists the urge to push closer toward his hand, but one hand reaches partway toward the water before she catches herself from pulling him closer thoughtlessly. He might tease her terribly for it, but after a second thought, Mizu strokes her fingers down his arm toward his wrist to pull it closer. She wants to forget about everything else but them, but him. She's damn well not meditating her way there.
Mizu tugs on his wrist and Vergil has a difficult time not grinning over her impatience even as they kiss. He allows her to draw his hand closer once her legs are parted, but he does not oblige her immediately. Not directly. Instead, he inverts the positions of their hands, placing his over hers. While the change in position may come as a bit of a surprise, Vergil doubts Mizu is ignorant of what he is doing. It's not the first time he's done this albeit the context was a little different. Guiding her fingers to tease over her own folds, Vergil breaks the kiss.
"If you're that impatient, perhaps you should take care of matters more yourself," he says, teasing her as she predicted he might, before kissing along her jaw. He speaks low into her ear when he reaches the corner of her jaw. Vergil pushes her fingers gently near to her entrance, drawing a line to a teasing stroke of her clit as he speaks. "Then perhaps the next time you find yourself in my clothes...and alone...I could occupy a corner of your mind."
The reality is that Vergil doubts very much Mizu dedicates much time if any at all to that. Whatever arguments she makes to herself to allow for such indulgences with him likely do not hold much weight in pleasuring herself alone, assuming the thought even occurs to her in the first place. But reality is not the point. The point is building a fantasy. Regardless of whether or not Mizu ever thinks of this later or acts upon it, both of them will still possess the memory of his hand over hers as she pleasures herself in want of him. It's a sweeter thing, he thinks, than to simply miss him. A longing with release that was not dependent upon his physical presence.
With Vergil there, surrounding her and holding her, the scent of him close despite the bath, Mizu wants him and to lose herself with him. A small huff, as he talks, gives away her immediate thoughts, but his voice wraps around her. She lets him guide her hand, his hand over hers a lifeline to what she pushed for. Her fingers move in imitation of his, what he's done time and time again, so much that Mizu knows exactly what she likes and what shortens her breath.
Vergil continues to speak, and the image he paints appears like brushstrokes in her mind. Even then, even in this image, he ghosts the scene. His clothes, his scent, the memory of his hand on hers, weighted further because she feels his fingers over hers. Mizu groans, sinking further against his hand at her back. Her longing for Vergil when he's gone fuels the image he paints. They're together this moment, and Mizu wants him more. Like he's a figment of her imagination.
"When I wear your clothes," Mizu manages, her fingers repeating the slow movements. She bites her lip, not to quiet herself but not to rush faster. When he's gone she always wants to feel him as long as she can. "You're always on my mind."
Sometimes with bodily longing, but that ache goes unanswered until next she sees him. Not this time, not in the image in her mind. She's on her bed in her mind's eye, a book of poetry spread open on the bed beside her. Even the pillow smells faintly of him. It's all him. Her fingers move in small circles. As with swordplay, she imitates ways he's teased her before. She breathes harder. "I lie where you did on the bed."
Between the water and his own strength, Vergil is able to support her weight easily by his hand alone as she leans back against it. Still, he leans in towards her just enough that there's space between his back and the wall of the tub for his tail to manifest. It curls behind her, giving Mizu something else to lean back against beyond just his hand, but snakes its way over her opposite leg along to her inner thigh.
Vergil dips his head to kiss along her throat, nipping at it lightly, and allowing her to seamlessly take the lead in teasing herself with her fingers. He's come to know her body well, and he's pleased to see Mizu's paid just as much attention when she's able to take the lead, touching and pleasuring herself in want of him. To say it's a thrill to bear witness to would be an understatement. And there is a temptation, of course, to pleasure her further beyond her touch alone to both reward and fulfill that want, but Vergil resists it for now. Mizu is taking it slower than that, and he follows her pace and movements.
"Where I would want you. Close to me," he murmurs against her skin. As close as she could be in that circumstance. Vergil returns to her lips, the languidness of the kiss mimicking the movement of her fingers. He breaks the kiss, but remains near to her lips. "You could close your eyes until it's easier to imagine it's not your hand alone convincing you to stay in bed just a little while longer. I'm right there with you."
A thrum moves through her as Mizu feels Vergil's tail first at her back and continuing around her. With his hand still lightly on hers, with his other hand still supporting her back, with her still in his lap, it gives her more of Vergil. More touch and connection and him. An ocean to the smallness of men. She teases herself the way she imagines Vergil would have, if she had not rushed him. His fingers instead of hers. Mizu hungers for more, wanted more and faster, yet she's wound up here all the same.
Already, small grunts and labored breathing escapes her. It's what she neededβto be loved and to be wanted despite everything terrible about her and what she'll do to him. It amazes her, and each time he speaks, each stroke of pleasure, drives away other thoughts so he holds her body and mind. Mizu kisses Vergil back instinctively, but she hungers for his words. So close, she can hardly see him now, but she pretends how she feels him fills the scene in her mind. His body warm and close, holding her, around her, touching her. His clothes a pale stand-in for Vergil but enough to bring him more to life.
"You are the reason I stay in bed," Mizu says, words harder. "You and your... many tricks." Mizu says it affectionately. Vergil has no job that needs doing, and Folkmore does not force it. Yet she's a person of habit, early to rise. Here he goes adding another one, for a morning when she's slept in his clothes and wakes smelling him. The bed would be cold, unless she slept in his spot. So she imagines doing so, going to bed alone, and waking with him curled around her, somehow still on the same side of the bed as her. A fantasy within a fantasy and a pleasant one at that.
Her legs kick a little as she imagines it further. "I tangle my legs in the sheets, like you're holding them."
Vergil chuckles at the affectionate accusation, the sound a low and pleased rumble in his chest. Some mornings, he takes ownership and is in agreement about them being tricks. Other mornings, he takes playful offense at the accusation. Regardless, the outcome is always the same, and he keeps her for a while longer in the morning in their shared warmth. Now he provides no response to it either way, much as he would not be able to lay claim or protest within this fantasy. It's something for Mizu to imagine in whichever direction pleases her most.
At the mention of her sheets tangling with her legs, he moves his tail further along the leg he's draped it over, slipping it beneath her calf. But despite his firm hold on her leg, Vergil does not manipulate the positioning of it. Sheets, after all, would not have the strength to move her legs, but the sense memory of the weight of his tail may return to her another time. Vergil does, however, separate his hand enough from Mizu's to tease her entrance once more with his own fingers.
"Each time you press into the mattress, you press into me." Vergil kisses the corner of her lips before resuming his trail along her neck, teasing at her recently refreshed mark as though he may yet add more to it. "And you know how rapacious my appetite is for you. I won't give you what you want until you cannot stand that want any longer."
Vergil's presence and support of her fantasy, as she speaks it, steels it within her mind, so that should she turn the fantasy into a reality, should she partake in the fantasy they discuss, she might recall how he feels now and feel it around her then. It nudges and presses at the corner of her mind in a warm blissful way that she doesn't look too closely at. Not now as pleasure runs through her and she focuses on his words and hers. Not now as she groans at the all too true promise that he makes her wait, that he drives her to call out his name and, yes she admits, even beg.
There's longer yet, Mizu resists begging far longer than she withholds being demanding. The words Vergil speaks turns it nearly into one of their games, where she must last as long as she can. Her chest heaves, and Mizu presses into his hand and tail with complete trust that he has her and supports her. Her body grows more tense, her toes curling, and she rocks toward her own hand, toward Vergil's.
"I want you," Mizu tells him, "Like metal wants to be forged. It'd be so easy to grant myself relief, but I..." She shudders as she moves her fingers in circles to drive her want further. "Don't. I don't want it to end. I want you."
Her words flow with little thought to them. Mizu's too distracted to paint much of an image with her words. It's longing, freely given.
He matches the rock of her hips in the way he continues to tease her with his fingers, using the heel of his hand occasionally to add to the pressure of her circles. Vergil's other hand and tail remain firm at her back in keeping her contained within his lap while still able to chase after her pleasure as she wills it. He does not need the fraying of thought to her words, the loss of an image to accompany them to know just how close she is to her peak. Vergil recognizes it in her movements, in the way her body is growing tenser. Even the way she draws breath, the sounds that slip from her.
He does not think much of what she says about not wanting it to end. At the very least, Vergil does not believe it more than a want of the fantasy to last. Even if it comes coupled with such relief and release, the end of a fantasy is akin to that of waking from a pleasant dream. It leaves behind a good, warm feeling, but the specifics of it are far too quick to fade from one's mind. Mizu is drifting further away from fantasy as she loses herself to the sensations she's feeling here and now. He doesn't doubt that may be yet true should she ever use this moment, this fantasy later in his absence. How much harder might it be for her to hold onto his words, his face, the feeling of his hands upon her when floods of pleasure threaten to drown her?
"Have me then," he says, slipping a finger inside her finally. Vergil turns his head to repeat the words in her ear, little more than a breath as he presses another finger inside her. "It's not the end. I'm yours, Mizu. Whenever you want me, I'm always yours."
The fantasy may take a moment to pause upon her climax as she loses total sense of herself and perhaps even connection with her own body beyond the waves of pleasure crashing into her again and again. But she can still find him once more as she comes down from the high. She may be more cognizant that she's in her own bed alone, tangled in sheets rather than with him directly. But he will still be there. His scent, his clothes, the memory and vision of him in her mind's eye. Even that warm, languid feeling that follows, Mizu can find him close to her still. Vergil hooks his fingers inside her to reach and attend to that sweet spot within.
Mizu presses forward toward pleasure and the release promised rather than turn away from it. Should she turn away, slow down, and relax, she will surely lose the vision in her mind. She needs it to last and to stay with her until the end, if not after, so that she may wrap Vergil around her when he is gone, even for a night. Tenderly, she holds onto it, on the feeling of how he holds her, so it imprints on the scene, and oh that scene continues head on.
She both rocks harder against her own movements and grows tense, body locking up more and more so that it does not listen to commands. Her words are gone, loud moans and whining replacing them. A steady stream that builds in volume with her pleasure. He speaks, and the words penetrate in a haze. Her arm around him tightens, and her hand digs into his shoulder where it lays. Around her, with her, in her, Mizu has Vergil. She can no longer tell whether the fantasy is of her in bed fantasizing or Vergil in bed with her, meeting her pleasure as he is now.
The pleasure overtakes her like the ocean, not one wave but an onslaught of them that surrounds her and keeps coming. Everything flashes blank, and Mizu shakes and shudders. Her fingers stop moving against her, and the tremors ebb away. They leave Mizu warm and boneless. Her head leans against Vergil, and she lets her eyes stay closed a while. She can smell him, feel him, and little else. Her arm hangs limp in her lap, and Mizu stays there, the echoes of pleasure racking through her. She's not sure how long she stays there, it feels both instantaneous and stretched toward forever. She's satisfied then to do...
Nothing. Simply be there in Vergil's arms.
In time, she nuzzles closer and says softly, "I always want you."
Even as Mizu loses more and more voluntary control over herself, Vergil continues to pump his fingers within her. Words leave her, replaced by sounds of want and need and eventually release as she begins pulsing tightly around, and she's never sounded so sweet to his ears. Swept away by pleasure, Mizu keeps a tight hold of Vergil. Her fingers at his shoulder dig deep, bruising in their grip and sure to leave little half-moons that linger just a bit longer than the bruises themselves until she practically collapses against him. Withdrawing his fingers from her slowly as she recuperates against him, Vergil uses his tail to bring her legs together again. He relinquishes his tail's grip on her leg then, allowing it do de-manifest so Vergil can lean back against the tub wall more comfortably. Vergil's other arm replaces where his tail had been around her waist as he holds her there against him. He presses little kisses to her head and what he can reach of her cheek. Until she comes back to him, Vergil has a firm hold on her and allows his little touches to bring her back to her body.
He returns her nuzzling affectionately.
"I am always yours to have," he says back like a sacred promise. Whether it is limited to just her mind or not, Vergil is hers as he promised before. She needn't want or long for him.
For the moment, Mizu believes him. Hers, always. The feeling cocoons her as much as Vergil holding her, and the two link themselves together. In that space, there's no rush to do... anything. Mizu could stay in the water until her skin wrinkles like an old man's. Her thoughts return, but they're different than before.
Vergil is in every part of Mizu's life in Folkmore. More important than what help he's occasionally given to her research are all the memories of reading together. Mizu speaks up when she finds something of interest or something Vergil might have insight into, as different as their worlds might be. He bought her the tools she uses to make weapons, and he's a part of her sword and with it every fight she uses it in. He brought Kai back to her life. Sometimes it's a small part, sometimes it's larger. Like a series of woodblock prints, he can always be found somewhere on each one.
That's why she can say, "I know."
She knows without him saying it, but she likes to hear him say it. Mizu sits up so she can see his face. She gestures toward the bedroom, where they undressed. "You're not getting that shirt back tonight. Or tomorrow. I have one that smells like me you can wear."
To hear her say she knows fill Vergil with a feeling he doesn't know how to articulate beyond that it is warm and pleasant, and satisfies something within him. They are impermanent. There is no version of them that persists beyond this realm that is more than memories. Memories that can and will inevitably fade with time. But this makes them feel more than that. Not some foolish notion that they were inevitable, but that each of them have chosen the other. And nothing can unmake that choice. Vergil watches her with a softer gaze as she sits up, gesturing back towards her bedroom and stakes her claim on his shirt.
"Is that so?" Vergil brings one of his hands up to her face, caressing it. It's no secret he's admiring her eyes this close, as he is often wont to do. "I suppose since you don't intend to send me home without anything to wear at all, I'll indulge your whims this time."
As though Vergil is not always ready and primed to indulge her whims, and that he didn't already have a suspicion that she was going to lay claim to his shirt tonight so it was more or less a foregone conclusion that he would be wearing one of the shirts he left here last time.
As restful and calm as Mizu feels, the moment feels odd for Vergil to admire her eyes. Her liveliness and mood may live in them, but there's little of that to see. A little playfulness over deep calm. The color must stand out all the more for nothing to distract from it, but Mizu holds Vergil's gaze without turning away. As little as she understands itβeven his appreciation of her spirit he sees there is one of logic, not feelingβMizu permits it. The ever foreign feeling washes over her. Vergil looks at her and her eyes with admiration and appreciation, without hesitance or repulsion. A year ago she would say the sun would sooner rise in the west and set in the east than anyone look at her eyes so intently with pure affection.
Her eyes light up in amusement as Vergil mentions going home naked. "It would be better I send you off with nothing at all than only a shirt, would it not?" Mizu asks, "You need only transform until you reached the privacy of your room. Carrying or wearing a shirt like that would only draw more attention to you."
She pauses. "I suppose you could don the shirt before you transform. That would work, and it would make that shirt smell like you faster."
The greatest issue at stake, clearly.
"Why then, I could dress entirely in your clothes with only modest effort to account for your size." Mizu is tall, for a woman, but many men are taller than her still. Vergil among them. It's no serious idea, given he's nearly a head taller than her. His shirts drape her, and she has no experience with the sorts of clothes he wears that she'd easily take them in to wear them properly. Yet there's an appeal there beyond Vergil forced to transform to hide his human nakedness.
Vergil raises an eyebrow at first. Ignoring for the moment how impossible it would be to get his shirt on after transforming, the notion that carrying it while transformed would somehow draw more attention is absurd. He's fairly certain his non-human appearance at the time of transformation would serve well enough in drawing attention from others all on its own that the shirt wouldn't likely register at all. Except for his family who would perhaps be more prone to piecing everything together, which would provide Dante with ammunition for at least a month and likely a degree of emotional scarring for Nero.
"So, I have merely planted the seeds for more devious schemes," Vergil says, his hand moving to hold Mizu's chin instead. Vergil gives her face a playful shake at her hypothetical plans for stealing all of his clothes in mock disapproval. "I know you to be plainly useless in protecting my remaining virtue, but that you would even consider sending me home naked or very nearly naked for your own gain..."
Vergil turns her face aside by the time he's done shaking it. But he only turns it aside for the sole purpose of leaning up and kissing her cheek as he wraps his arm back around her.
"I suppose Kai is not the only one being spoiled rotten around here if you're coming up with ideas like that and speaking of them so confidently," he teases, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth before settling back.
Her energy returned to her, Mizu sits easily in Vergil's lap, aware it would unfortunately be difficult to so manage with him transformed. He has so many sharp angles to consider, but Vergil undoubtedly does not wish to hurt her by holding her. For her part, Mizu would be more bothered at how she could not even momentarily mark his skin. Something that resists her sword could deflect her teeth with ease. Yet it's an appealing shape and imagining Vergil in it outside combat appeals to her.
"Beyond our sparring, you have yet to deny me anything," Mizu says. She leans in and kisses the corner of Vergil's mouth. "Every time I have asked you for something, you have given it to me without reservation. You have granted my wishes before I knew I had them."
She cannot consider herself and Akemi, the princess the one who comes to mind at the idea of someone spoiled rotten. She expects people to do her bidding and serve her needs with little thought to what they might want or consider for themselves. Though Mizu must admit she's strong willed enough to see herself through where other spoiled sorts would crumble. No, that's not the image of spoiled Vergil teases and paints. It's far more awe inspiring. As little as Vergil may be inclined to return home transformed and naked but for the natural armor that protects him, Mizu firmly knows he would if she truly and deeply needed, no wanted, his clothes for her own that instant.
Kai herself is the way Vergil most spoiled Mizu. Not once did she consider that Kai could come to Folkmore. Only one day, near her birthday, the horse stood before her home alone. No one with her. No note. Nothing. Only an impossible reunion that saw Mizu squeal with delight as she's never done before. Every day Mizu feeds Kai and rides with her, the ground disappearing below Kai's blur of hooves. And Mizu? Mizu feels the happiness she felt then. Twofold for their separation.
Mizu says nothing, yet again, about Vergil giving her Kai. She knows.
"Where are your selfish whims that would take my virtue, had I any?" Mizu asks, "Or ought I spoil you more. Tell me what you want."
It is a smile that she kisses the corner of when she mentions their sparring as something Vergil has denied her in the past. She did well in managing her frustrations over it. But that management was likely because she correctly guessed that Vergil would refuse to entertain even the notion of continued sparring were she to do anything less than accept the limit he placed. What they do is not a true fight, and thus, it requires a degree of trust. Pushing or manipulating past his limit would have put an end to his mild amount of trust, and subsequently their sparring. But just because Mizu managed her frustrations does not mean she did not make her frustrations plain and clear to him. Vergil regarded it a bit warily back then, uncertain if she would ultimately accept the limit, but in hindsight, it's almost adorable the way she was on the verge of pouting over it at times. It is why he smiles. Vergil does not often seek to frustrate her, but there is something undeniably endearing about those lighter forms of frustration.
And then there is the question again. Except it's not posed as a question, as she had earlier. When she asked, Vergil considered the question carefully at its surface of what he might want and came up short. In of itself, that is not all that peculiar. Rarely is it that Vergil has an answer when anyone asks him what he wants. But when she asked then, Vergil pushed past reflex to sincerely consider it and really could not think of more that he might want in that moment. He came here tonight to ensure that Mizu was able to eat well as his chief priority. But the secondary was to have her time and attention, to be close to her and share in affection with her in the ways they only do when they're alone. He did not care what the shape of all that took, only that it was there. And it was. It still is.
...But still Vergil cannot help feeling that the answer ought to be different as well. He isn't certain if it's because the question is delivered differently or if it's a consequence of the frustration that was spilling out from her earlier when Mizu could not appreciably mark his skin that only makes itself known now. He just knows it feels wrong somehow to say there's nothing that he wants, nothing that she can give him.
"It is one thing to ask me to consider a hypothetical, but it is another to ask me to entertain an impossible one," he teases lightly on the matter of her virtue, allowing the playful ribbing to act as a buffer rather than silence. Comfortable as they both as with silence between them, Vergil thinks it would rest too heavily now that he does not want to chance it. "It is difficult for me to long for anything when the greatest of my wants is right here in my lap."
It may be a mark of her greed that Mizu always finds more to want with Vergil, from Vergil. Missing him and wearing his shirts started off a secret desire, one she would not think to discuss as they have tonight, but since he came unannounced (as she gave him an invitation to come any time) to her reading in it, it's become known, something she can raise in conversation and acknowledge. Whether that was their earlier conversation about what she smells like or here, joking about sending him home naked. Mizu wouldn't, no matter that Vergil could use the Yamato to travel directly between her home and his room, but she can entertain the idea in amusement. Perhaps some day she'll ask him to leave an entire set of clothes here, extravagant as that feels. For her to wear or for him to change into should he come from slaughtering monsters in Cruel Summer. In the end, it's but one more example of some desire that comes to light from spending time together.
As much as she takes, Mizu wants to give him as muchβanything he might want or even not know he wants. With great pleasure, she's discovered his hungry desire when she defeats a demon in the fighting pits and the heady truth that she can take him in all the varied tenderness and need as he takes her. Something Madam Kaji opted not to show her that night before they reached their agreement. Mizu's greed extends to wanting to give Vergil as much in return, and perhaps, just perhaps, Mizu feels comfortable enough to brush against the thought, to give him enough that it sustains him when she's gone.
Briefly considered, Mizu sets the thought aside.
"I hope you think of me and manifest that longing when I am gone, as I have just done imagining mornings when we're apart," Mizu says softly. She brushes his cheek and would not blame him if he were chastened by living with his family, a door so flimsy a thing between them. "Now when you wake, you can know I may have thought of you and done the same."
( While not late at night, it's not exactly early either when Dante decides to go looking for his brother. He peeks around here and there, munching on whatever snack he's currently helping himself to. It's nothing of grand importance or anything that requires his brother's undivided attention by any means, but. He's still on the hunt for him and, when he finally finds him... he drapes himself all over his dear big brother... in a bright blue Hawaiian style shirt with bright yellow pineapples littered all over it. No, he doesn't have shorts on, just his regular pants, but he's also sporting a pair of black shades there on his face, loudly munching away. )
[Vergil's brow furrows at the question, not so much the intrusion to his personal space. For one, these days there are enough people who use his time reading as their opportunity to be thoroughly in his personal space that he's hard-pressed to take offense. For another, it's an incredibly familiar childhood habit of Dante's that Vergil adapted to being on the receiving end of once more a while ago now. Thus, the question is stupid. A waste of his breath. It's difficult not to retort back with an equally childish What does it look like I'm doing? to Dante's Whatcha doin'?, but he catches himself. At least that much. There's a mild undercurrent of that's a stupid question still underlying his tone when he begins to speak.]
I'm... [The furrow deepens as he takes in the sight of his brother, and more importantly, his attire. Vergil's gaze goes from the sunglasses to the shirt back to the glasses to the loud shirt again.] ...What the hell are you wearing?
Well. That's a lie really. He damn well knew his brother would comment on his current state of dress, but! He doesn't mind at all. In fact! He practically beams at his brother choosing to comment on that. Popping another cheesy chip into his mouth β crunch β he smiles. )
You like it? Well, that's great, 'cause I picked one up for you, too.
( He pops another chip on in that big old mouth of his. )
[Vergil doesn't say anything. Instead, he scrutinizes Dante very carefully, looking for any and all signs that he's just trying to wind Vergil up. Because surely, he must be trying to wind Vergil up. It was one thing to get Vergil to put on that uncomfortable, matching (and frankly hideous) Christmas sweater. That was at Nero's behest and for ultimately just a few hours for a special occasion. That's different. There is absolutely no occasion in this world or their own that Vergil can possibly think he would ever even consider wearing anything remotely similar to what Dante is currently donning. Not even for their birthday would Vergil so much as entertain it as a thought when Dante would arguably have more leverage than usual.]
[His lips pinch as his jaw clenches in his disgust at the notion, and as he realizes there is no way he can possibly ascertain anything beyond sincerity from Dante.]
...You need to leave the house more. You're starting to develop cabin fever and grow delusional.
( He shakes a cheesy fingered hand at Vergil's words, smile still there on his lips. )
I won't hear anything of the sort. You're my brother and I didn't want you to feel left out, so I made sure to pick one up for you, too. ( Hand dropping down to crinkle the bag he has while fishing around for another chip, that smile just grows brighter. ) It's dark blue with palm trees on it.
[Vergil instinctively leans away from the cheese-dusted finger being waved at him.]
You shouldn't have.
[Really. He shouldn't have.]
[Does Dante really expect him to wear something like that? Surely not. At any point, he's going to say he's just kidding. There is no horrid shirt like that. Any minute now.]
( All he says is nothing. Just smiles. A cheeky little smile that grows bigger and bigger and bigger as he keeps himself draped there over his dear big brother.
...and that's when he holds up a cheesy flavored chip to Vergil's mouth. You know, if he wants one for himself. )
[Vergil narrows his eyes suspiciously at his brother for that growing smile, and in an attempt to coerce that desired just kidding to emerge. But fine. He'll eat the damn chip in the interim. Vergil's crunch on the chip is significantly more polite than Dante's, bringing a hand up to make sure there's no crumbs falling on him (if any get on Dante, that's a risk he should have taken into account), and he doesn't immediately start talking afterward either. He was raised to not talk with his mouth full even if it's just one chip.]
[ It had been a few days since Oleandra had finished reading the book that Vergil had lent her; and while it had certainly been thought-provoking, it had left her feeling unsure in more ways than one. The idea that perhaps she shouldn't commit the murder she had planned to commit, that it would somehow be more harmful to do so than to not, turns her stomach into a writhing pit. They have no right to keep on living. None.
Had he recognized something in her and was trying to send her a very specific message with his choice of recommendation? Or did he simply think the topic itself was interesting and worthy of thought? It takes her some time to feel more capable of not approaching the matter in an aggressive manner, and she is absent from her usual library trips for a few days in a row before she feels capable of returning.
Still, knowing herself and her tendency to lash out, perhaps it would be best to not have a discussion on the matter inside the library -- as little as she generally cared about the property of others, she had been enjoying the sanctuary of the place as of late, and felt a slight twinge of guilt imagining its shelves destroyed.
Instead, she waits outside the front door on a day she suspects Vergil will come back to return his latest findings, the book he lent her in hand. ]
[Their paths have not crossed for a little while, but Vergil has thought nothing of Oleandra's absence during his own trips to the library. It wouldn't be particularly strange, after all, for them to ultimately be two ships passing in the night as far as that is concerned. They have their own lives and schedules to attend, and it's only felt through happenstance that their paths crossed at the library in the first place.]
[Thus, it is far more noteworthy to him to see her loitering about near to the entrance as she currently happens to be. That strikes Vergil as more unusual.]
What a coincidence, [ she says with a wry smile. ] Just the man I was waiting for.
[ She turns to face him, lifting the book to draw attention to the title. ] I finished this, and had some thoughts about your recommendation ... but, well, I thought it rather rude to engage in a debate in a designated quiet zone.
[Vergil looks to the book in her hands before his gaze returns to her face, trying to ascertain what exactly the intention is here. The word debate is a deliberate choiceβVergil will not be convinced otherwise of thatβand with it comes a certain weight behind it. As well as something Vergil is not particularly interested in doing if the way his gaze drifts momentarily behind her. All he wanted to do was visit the library and enjoy a few quiet hours there. Instead? This.]
[He heaves a sigh, half-tempted to simply walk past her through the front door. But Oleandra has not proven herself to be a consistent nuisance to him that he's willing to disregard her so intensely and acutely. So, he willingly steps aside so as not to block the door himself. He stands before her with his arms crossed.]
There is nothing I wish to discuss, let alone debate.
[ There's a brief moment where her expression appears almost taken aback, before her jaw sets and she quickly corrects herself into something less obviously hurt and more ... coolly disappointed. Sure, the two of them were not friends, and her expectations of their camaraderie were low, but it did sting to be so thoroughly and quickly rejected. ]
I beg your pardon?
[ She lets the hand holding up the book drop, head tilting to the side in careful curiosity. She is genuinely confused about his response, even if she's also now doubly irritated. Even if she hadn't taken exception to the specifics of what he had recommended her, she had assumed that at some point they would, you know, check in and share their opinions on what the other had recommended. ]
Am I to understand, then, that recommending me this was your subtle way of telling me to fuck off, or ...?
[ She trails off, waiting for an explanation. She had expected perhaps this book was some form of admonishment for her behavior, but his refusal to engage at all sets off alarms in the part of her brain damaged by neglect and rejection, and she jumps straight into wondering what she did this time to have this person want nothing to do with her ... and how did she miss the signs of someone looking to get rid of her? ]
[His eyes narrow briefly at that subtle change in her expression, uncertain what to make of it. Confusion does not manage to make its way into his face at her question, but even Vergil feels distinctly that a step has been missed here. He is just uncertain as to which one of them missed the step.]
In the time that you've known me, have I ever seemed like the sort of person who reaches for subtlety in expressing myself? [Vergil shakes his head slightly.] I've no quarrel with you, Oleandra. I simply come to the library for its relative quiet.
I was at the mall and theres a store there with a bookstore cafe that also sells records, and they have a big cozy back section with little partishins with couches and comfy chairs n stuff in them, so you can sit there and read or listen to the music on headphones.
We should go!!!!
- Nero β‘β‘β‘
[This is, make no mistake, another attempt by Nero to Bother his Father in a long game to make him use text messages like a normal person.
[Oh, this is bait for Vergil to respond this time. Vergil is many things, but that blind of a fool is not one of them to miss how Nero crafted his message so specifically to encourage a response from Vergil. He should not indulge so blatant an attempt, but Vergil does not like the idea of leaving an invitation from Nero to do something together without a response. This child... Too clever for his own good.]
Nero,
That sounds quite the unique find to cater so closely to both our interests. I would be open to going with you if that is your wish.
- Dad
P.S. For your future reference, it's not a word that's spelled the way it sounds: partitions.
[Vergil knows writing it closer to a letter or written note is technically unnecessary, but since Nero is going the extra mile to write more properly that way as well, Vergil opts to respond in kind.]
( At some point during the night, Dante is going to make his lazy way into his brother's room without so much as a knock to the door. The way he intends to announce his presence is with the heavy thud that comes to the bed when he drops himself down onto it, pulling the blankets over him amidst quiet little coughs and sniffles.
No, he's not in his jacket, boots, and holster anymore. He'd changed into a black long-sleeved shirt and some sweats. Real Smokin' Sexy Stlye!! and all. Socks on as well, he curls up beneath the sheets and burrows his way beneath them there on his side, head dropped to the pillow some while staring to his brother's figure in the darkness of the room. )
[As if there needed to be some evidence of how unwell Vergil himself has been feeling, it comes when he does not so much as stir when Dante lets himself into his room unannounced. Years of having to watch his own back has made Vergil an incredibly light sleeper and any unexpected movement or noise should bring him to the waking world immediately. But it's not until Dante crash lands onto the bed beside him that Vergil wakes with a mild start. Once he knows it's Dante, Vergil closes his eyes with a slight frown.]
If you're going to be in here, shut up and go to sleep, [he mumbles, irritably.]
[Without sparing a glance to his alarm clock, Vergil has no idea the time beyond that it's still night based upon the darkness of the room and outside his windows. )Were it not for the rising and setting of the sun, it's likely he would have lost all sense of time by now with how much he's slept off and on each day.) And given that, he'd rather not be awake just yet. Not when there's a completely boring day ahead of him in being confined to his room or the couch. Although Nero did promise a couple laps around the block tomorrow provided Vergil wasn't any worse in the morning. Fresh air would be nice, and Vergil is antsy to see something beyond the walls of the house at this point.]
( Wow! What the Hell? If he wasn't currently feeling the way that he is β like crap β he'd be sure to give his dear big bro a knuckle sandwich right between the shoulder blades for that bit of rudeness. As it stands, he instead gently kicks at Vergil from behind a little beneath the sheets, coughing as he does. )
I don't feel good. You can't be mean to me.
( Another little kick, just for good measure, he buries his face into the pillow, coughing again. )
That's the rules when you're sick. Gotta do whatever I say.
[Despite the light kicks for attention, Vergil steadfastly ignores them and does not roll over to face his little brother. He keeps his eyes closed albeit now with a deeper furrow in his brow.]
First of all, those are the rules for someone's birthday, but considering we share a birthday, it's never applied. [He draws the blankets closer to himself.] Secondly, you're not the only one ill and you started pestering me first.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Backdated to New Years Eve!
Maruki stands there, a well-insulated bag in hand. It may not be a gift from home. Vergil may not appreciate the interruption, but Maruki wanted to bring this to him anyway. It was the kind thing to do -- especially when he suspects Vergil might be the sort who is often alone. There's nothing wrong with being a loner, but here in Folkmore where the currency hinges upon interaction? The inclination to avoid people only makes it that much harder. So it's up to some of the more sociable types to ensure those loners are well-taken care of!
Of course, there's very little Maruki can do if Vergil refuses to answer the door. But hopefully it won't come to that. He lightly knocks again. ]
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[But where Maruki gets it wrong is in his assumption that Vergil is somehow on the brink of disaster because of his more reserved, private nature. He knows how to survive on less, but more than that, Vergil's pragmatic enough to understand if he wants to survive, he can't be entirely on his own. And so, he does what must and makes do with the little snippets of conversation here and there. Today has been such a day where the majority of it has been spent gathering enough lore that he ought to have enough to replenish his foodstuffs tomorrow.]
[Thus, the evening was his. Or it was meant to be, in any case.]
[Returning to his apartment in the late afternoon, he'd spent the time practicing his form. Even if the threats seem significantly minimal in Folkmore and he's still without Yamato, there is something inherently meditative to the practice for Vergil; never mind that it also satisfies his need for self-discipline to keep his skills sharp. After enough practice for one afternoonβif such a thing truly existedβhe opted for a quick shower. It's shortly after that, when Vergil's just putting on a kettle for some tea that there's knocking at his front door.]
[At the first knock, Vergil's brow furrows and he looks at the door from the kitchen almost as though it's offended him personally.]
[At the second knock, he sighs. Although Vergil's certainly put out with his solitude being disturbed, he doesn't deign to be rude to whoever is intruding on his evening. Vergil finishes selecting his mug from the cabinet, placing it down on the countertop near to the stove before hitting the pause button on the quiet music that had been playing on his relic. Running his fingers through his hair, Vergil pushes it back to be mildly a little more presentable despite his current attire of a plain t-shirt and sweatpants. His hair is still damp enough from the shower that it minds the redirection easily enough.]
[He makes it to the door before there can be a third knock, opening the door wide enough for the both of them to see one another, but certainly not wide enough to signal any invitation to come inside. Much like before when Maruki was at his door, Vergil's brow furrows slightly as he looks from Maruki to his insulated bag.]
You again. [It's said more like a statement of fact that it is, indeed, Maruki again rather than an accusation or irritability. He meets Maruki's gaze.] What do you want?
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Good evening!
[ Judging by his attire, Vergil appears to be ready to settle into that evening. A slightly apologetic expression comes to Maruki's face, even though he doesn't outright apologize. The damage is done. The door is open. He'll be quick! ]
It's New Years Eve. I don't know if you're familiar with Japanese traditions...but I made just a little too much Toshikoshi Soba for myself and Minato-kun tonight, so I thought you might appreciate it.
[ He carefully removes the inner bag from the insulated one to reveal a hearty bowl of noodles, vegetables, and a fish cake on top. The steam still pours out from under the lid. ]
It's a meal meant to bring good fortune into the New Year and one that's rich with symbolism -- To break free of ones past and to gather strength and resilience like the tough buckwheat crop.
[ Maruki places a sleeve of chopsticks on top of the bowl and then offers the bag in Vergil's direction. ]
I won't claim to be a professional chef or anything, but I am proud of how I've perfected this throughout the years.
[ The pleasantries fade to something uncharacteristic for Maruki, something softer and more forlorn. ]
It's been a long while since I could celebrate the New Year with anyone other than myself for company.
[ But just as quickly as he let that sorrow shadow his face, it's gone because Maruki has to remember the things he is grateful for. He's not alone. He'll go back to his place and be able to celebrate the stroke of midnight with Minato. He has a second chance, and maybe in this world...he can find the right path for his life to take. ]
But I digress! Sharing the wishes for a good fortune and wishing you a Happy New Year was all I wanted.
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[Thus, Vergil's skepticism is about to be followed with outright suspicion quickly thereafter as Maruki explains the symbolism behind the food and offers it to him. What slows it from manifesting, however, is Vergil himself lacks enough to formulate possible ulterior motives. What ultimately stops it in its tracks is that little remark and shift in Maruki's tone.]
[The man is clearly lonely. No wonder why he's being so persistent in the face of... Well, Vergil isn't exactly outright rejecting Maruki, but he's not being particularly inviting either.]
[Granted, it could also all be an act.]
[Rather than taking the offered food, Vergil scrutinizes the man at his door.]
[...Then again, if this man is somehow pulling one over Vergil, he's likely an incredibly talented actor while also having the world's worst intuition on how to effectively manipulate others.]
[Vergil's pause in taking the offered food or responding to the well wishes lasts a moment longer before he opens the door a little wider.]
If you would like to come in for a few minutes, I was just making some tea.
[He can humor this lonely human for a few minutes. At the very least, it won't create a situation where there's a perceived debt between them if Vergil exchanges something in return. And if nothing else, it would serve to either confirm Vergil's suspicions if these few minutes prove to be what he was truly after or prove there is some other motive waiting to yet be revealed. And in that circumstance, it is certainly better for Vergil to have a close eye on him than nothing at all.]
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Yes, please. That would be lovely. Thank you! It is quite a long trip back to Leshy...
[ Which does beg the question how the food managed to stay so warm. But that's nothing a tiny bit of fire magic couldn't take care of!
Takuto steps into the entrance once Vergil moves to allow it and pauses to remove his boots at the door. Whether Vergil takes the food from him or Maruki carries it to the table himself, when his hands are free he loosens the light blue scarf so that the tails simply drape around his shoulders.
Giving a cursory glance around the apartment, he takes note of two things. The swords and the bookshelf. While the swords aren't too unusual (Maruki had figured Vergil to be a warrior of some kind) the books aren't exactly expected. Unfairly, Maruki had assumed because Vergil was a man of few words, he was also a man who didn't necessarily like words. But that doesn't seem to be the case. Instead Vergil is like a good novel, hiding away beneath a thick cover with a unique personality and story within the pages. Granted, this shelf could be decoration alone, but Maruki has to resist every urge to head over and start perusing the titles -- to eagerly look for a connection point, something they could chat about. But he'll be polite for now. He's not looking to get kicked out when he'd only just got invited!
Besides, he thinks he has a better idea at a first connection point -- something Vergil might be infinitely more comfortable with. It's not Maruki's particular interest since he leans heavily toward the intellectual, but he would be remiss if he didn't try to sharpen his skillset here. ]
Is it your preference to train alone, Mr. Vergil? Or would you perhaps be interested in a sparring partner? I know I might not look like much, but I assure you...I could be a worthy opponent. This world still allows me access to my powers.
[ He winces slightly. ]
Though my stamina is certainly not what it was back home. That's something I'm in great need to improve. It already proved dangerous during the Wild Hunt a month ago. I managed to save a few others, but I couldn't keep up against the fae for long and found myself surrounded.
[ Shaking his head, he gets back to the point. ]
But if you would be willing to offer your aid, I would be eternally grateful!
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[Vergil returns to his kitchen and puts the mug he grabbed earlier away. Rather than simply grabbing a second mug, Vergil opts for teacups. He'd determined he would entertain this man for a few minutes and he meant it. A teacup would mean a bit quicker consumption of the tea and send him on his way sooner than a mug. He places both mugs and saucers on a small tray, alongside a teapot and strainer.]
It's just Vergil, [he first corrects as he opens the tea tin and begins scooping out the leaves for the teapot.] I'm not an instructor. Defeating those with less skill and power than myself is meaningless.
[While it's certainly a mark of arrogance on Vergil's part both in the assumption Maruki could not keep up with him and that it is beneath him to engage with those weaker than himself, there's also something that's deeply pragmatic about it all the same. Vergil truly can't gain much from a sparring match against a weaker and less skilled opponent. His skills don't improve from the fight and there's no pride or satisfaction to be taken in defeating an opponent who won't prove a challenge.]
If you wish to improve, I'm sure there are plenty at the schools that will take that on.
[Unfortunately, Maruki's assurance to Vergil that he could be worthy isn't enough to convince Vergil. The drive to want to improve is admirable, of course. Taking a defeat and using it to motivate oneself towards improvement is the only respectable outcome to Vergil. But could be isn't the same as would be. A lack of confidence is just as much a mark of a lack of skill as anything else. One could possess all the power in the world, but a lack of confidence inhibits their ability to maximize their potential with it because they begin to second guess and hesitate.]
[Vergil simply isn't keen on sparring with someone who lacks confidence any more than he is someone who lacks power.]
[The kettle on the stovetop begins to whistle and Vergil steps over to turn the stove off and place the kettle on another burner.]
Do you take anything with your tea?
[Vergil doesn't, but he's willing to accommodate and add sugar and/or milk to the tray.]
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[ Maruki answers of the tea first, opting for silence immediately after Vergil's assertion about their power levels. He's not offended. It's clear looking at him, Maruki comes across more like a bumbling idiot than anything. If he emphatically insisted he was strong enough, it would likely only come across as a petulant child trying to insist he was good enough to play a sport against the older boys. Something that comes from a place of wanting to fit in rather than any skill. Maruki doesn't truly want to fight. He doesn't want to fit in. He just wants to protect people....
Settling into the largely unused seat, he folds his hands on the table and spares a glance toward the swords on the wall again. Maruki had only hoped to make a friend, but perhaps it was unfair to himself to try and capitulate to the Vergil's interests in hopes it would open up a chance for them to get to know each other. ]
I suppose you are correct that this would be an issue better suited to one of the schools. Truthfully, I'm not sure even you would be able to withstand my power and I wouldn't wish to hurt you.
[ There isn't a shred of pride or ego in his tone. Maruki is honest. And he certainly doesn't look at the other man with pity or superiority. It's only a pragmatic expression he offers as he folds his hands on the table. ]
But I don't precisely take comfort in utilizing Thirteen's methods to further my own strength. My power is my own.
[ And if things continue the way they are within this world, there may come a time when that power needed to go against Thirteen. ]
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[Were he decades younger, it's no doubt that would have sparked some kind of reaction in Vergil. He had so much to prove back then and any insinuation of weakness was always met with a swift, efficient show of force to prove otherwise. But as it is, Vergil finds it faintly amusing that Maruki of all people could somehow hurt him in any significant way when others with more overt strength and power haven't been able to break him, but it doesn't show anywhere in his expression. He just picks up the tray and brings it to the table, setting it in the middle. Vergil pulls out the other chair, turning it so the back rests against the wall before he takes a seat.]
[He leaves the tea alone to steep in the pot, folding his arms across his chest. Vergil doesn't look over at Maruki, instead looking out the balcony that he's positioned the table across from. Vergil hasn't closed the blinds yet for the evening, allowing a view of Epiphany to still be visible beyond the slight glare from the apartment lights.]
And yet, you would find enough comfort to train with me. Someone you don't truly know both in motivation and intention, but seem to think you do after a few minutes of being around them. For all you know, I could kill you where you sit before you could even draw your next breath.
[He hums in his quiet, faint amusement. There's almost a smile.]
[It's curious, he thinks. This man seems so entirely unassuming, but he's bold enough to try and claim he possesses within him a great power. He's almost blind in his trust with a near-stranger and yet he's skeptical of the being that brought them both here. It's a curious dichotomy. But it is also terribly human, Vergil thinks. Maruki doesn't know Vergil to be anything other than human. There's nothing about Vergil that would lead him to conclude otherwise without any sort of supernatural or heightened senses, which he clearly does not possess. But he knows Thirteen isn't human. He knows she operates on rules that are unconventional to humans. Perhaps even, at times, antithetical. And he probably knows well enough fox spirits tend to be tricksters in most folklore. He wonders if Maruki would think differently if he knew. If Vergil were to claim his heritage right here and now, how quickly would his perspective shift and change?]
[Vergil doesn't experiment with it and lets it be. He turns his head to look at Maruki.]
Regardless, my answer remains the same. You'll need to find someone else among the...Star Children. [He finds the term silly, and that much is likely clear by the way he hesitates before saying it never mind the tone. Vergil looks back out at the world outside his apartment.] I'm sure there are plenty that would be eager. And you wouldn't need to rely upon Thirteen for any of it.
[Something Vergil privately approves of Maruki doing even if he won't say as much directly. His power is his own, he said. Hopefully he shall be able to stick to it, Vergil thinks as his gaze darts briefly to the katana he had been practicing with earlier. Vergil wasn't left with much choice in that particular matter when it comes to his weapons.]
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But even so, Vergil reiterates his disinterest in training and that's that. Maruki won't protest. He simply removes his glasses and takes a cloth from his breast pocket to polish them. ]
Fair enough.
[ The glasses are returned to his face and it's back to the mild-mannered, gentle expression again. With a quiet laugh, Maruki shakes his head. ]
Though let's be clear, I don't presume to know a single thing about you, Vergil. I can craft ideas, I can come up with theories and have my guesses...but I will never be as bold as to claim I know your motivations. And I certainly will never be as bold as to claim I trust you. The only thing I see when I look at you is someone who is far too used to being alone.
[ And maybe Vergil is happy that way. Maybe he's content to carry on in solitude. Maybe he will claim he doesn't need any kind of companionship because his books and his swords are enough. But would that be the truth? ]
I don't know the circumstances behind it. I don't know your life. I don't know what led you to follow the fox in the first place. The only thing I do know is you've tolerated my company thus far. And so, I would like to keep offering it. As someone else who is far too used to being alone. A fool of a man who thought that by becoming his world's god, he could fill the hole in his life.
[ Slowly, Maruki reaches out to take the tea pot so he can pour himself a cup. Vergil has tolerated his presence, but Maruki knows the time is ticking down. So he'll get the tea cooling to drink it and be on his way -- to not outstay his very thin welcome. ]
I will admit, the only reason I offered training is because I thought you might be more tolerant of that kind of continued contact as opposed to the conversational sort. But perhaps that was presumptuous of me, and I do apologize if so.
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[Vergil looks away again as Maruki continues, pouring himself his serving of tea. He opts to close his eyes for a moment, focusing on the scent of the tea as the warm, woody notes of the Rooibos tea rises from Maruki's cup. It's a sweeter blend with cacao and caramel to balance the nuttier and smokier flavoring. Perfect for a cold winter day.]
[Strange as it is to consider, it seems that Vergil and Maruki are cut from a similar cloth to one another if what Maruki claims is true. Vergil was never trying to abate his loneliness. He learned first to tolerate it, survive it, and then thrive within it. But he tried so hard for so long to use power as a means of eliminating that weakness and vulnerability he so feared and dread to ever feel again. It could have very well driven him to madness or worse, but in all his philosophies and attempts to protect himself and what he had... Vergil had only known loss. Again and again.]
I have spent the past two and a half decades in the Underworld. [He opens his eyes, turning his head to look at Maruki again. Continuing, he sounds almost as though he were scolding Maruki, agreeing that it was presumptuous on Maruki's part when he says,] I'm not averse to conversation.
[Vergil pauses before he adds, a little gentler,] It's simply rare amid the filth of that place that you will find anything akin to intelligence.
[It's the closest Vergil is willing to be in saying that he's not accustomed to conversation and hasn't been in a very long time. He brushes past the admission quickly, turning in his seat to pour himself his own cup of tea, he continues,]
Being on my own is of little consequence to me and I won't abide pity. So, if your intentions are to make me feel better, it's a matter that doesn't bother or pain me. Or if you've concerns I might starve to death in this place, I know what it takes to survive and manage fine on my own within the parameters Thirteen has set. But if you're looking to ease your own loneliness...
[He sets the teapot down and places the strainer back down near the center of the tray. He moves his teacup from the tray to the table in front of him before settling back to his original position. This time, he rests a forearm on the edge of the table as he looks back out toward the balcony.]
There are others who would likely make for better company.
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But Vergil shared with him. Vergil shared this one truth about his life. He wasn't forced. After their initial meeting and Vergil's refusal to even confirm or deny whether Maruki's guesses were correct, Maruki never thought Vergil would part with any sort of information without a great deal of arm twisting or questioning that bordered the edge of annoyance. Certainly, he never expected anything unprompted. And Maruki cannot hide the warm appreciation at receiving even a sliver of insight into the other.
He gently lifts his tea, parting the steam with a gentle breath before taking a sip. What a unique and delectable blend! ]
While that may be true in regards to quote unquote "better company," I hardly find yours unpleasant.
[ The cup is returned to the table and he looks up at Vergil. ]
If there have to be intentions of any sort assigned to this, why not consider it a mutually beneficial arrangement? Since lore is the currency, we both stand to gain from any interaction. It certainly sounds better than you merely tolerating the company of a lonely man.
[ There's a soft, throaty laugh as his eyes return to the tea -- tracing the tendrils of vapor as they rise up into the air. ]
Hm, I know! I love trying new recipes and I can tell you have quite the discerning palate -- so what if I cooked you dinner once a week and you gave me your feedback? You can criticize me as harsh and brutally as you wish -- the lore is not nearly as discerning!
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[Vergil hums thoughtfully.]
Very well. [He looks at Maruki. He doesn't know this man's intentions truly. Not enough to completely rule him out as a potential threat that Vergil cannot see just yet because of his own assumptions. But it's better to keep someone like this closer at his own choice than the alternative.] Once a week.
[Vergil meant what he said about not being one for pity, and he's not about to tolerate several meals per week being provided to him. He also lets his tone imply this counts for this week before Maruki goes and gets any ideas.]
Early April
Mizu knocks dressed as she always is, though this version of her outfit has never been chewed up on one side. There's the chance he isn't home. Mizu doesn't know his hours, his comings and goings. She can always come back again.
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He pads his way barefoot to the front door from the living area he designated for training and practice rather than entertaining company, his approaching footsteps likely still audible on the other side of the door. When he opens the door, Mizu is greeted by both a familiar and unfamiliar sight. One the one hand, Vergil's stern expression has gone absolutely nowhere. The mild irritation at being disturbed persists until Vergil realizes it's Mizu. Even then, it's not as though his expression suddenly becomes one of immense warmth. On the other hand, Vergil is significantly dressed down with only handwraps and loose sweatpants on. Even if Mizu couldn't necessarily piece together he was likely about to start training, it's clear Vergil wasn't expecting him.
"Let me guess," he says, "you've come for your tools."
He doesn't wait for him to answer, stepping back inside his studio apartment and leaving the door open. Vergil assumes Mizu following is dependent upon what he wants to do rather than the presence of an invitation. It makes little difference to Vergil either way. Akin to Mizu's cabin in Wintermute, there isn't much by way of personal effects in Vergil's apartment. Past the small entryway wherein there's a door for the bathroom and a closet, a bookcase at the foot of the bed demarcates a place to sleep from the training area. Just outside the kitchen, pressed against the wall is a table with only two chairs. One of the chairs isn't pushed in and instead has its back also against the wall. Its position allows for looking out over the whole of the apartment and out the balcony glass doors. Everything about the arrangement of Vergil's place seems to serve some practical purpose and beyond the books on the shelf, the only real personal touches seem to be some of Vergil's training equipment, an amulet with a palm-sized gem on a nightstand, and a few potted plants that seem to be adequately cared for near the balcony door.
Vergil makes his way over to the wardrobe in his sleeping area, sliding it open.
"How are your wounds?"
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Pants like his would be more useful than the clothing Thirteen gave Mizu that Mizu... ignored. Those clothes were men's clothes, but they were men's clothes for court, and Mizu has no reason to wear anything that fancy. She closes the door behind her and checks out the rest of the living space, if it can really be called that.
"My tools, yes, though I wouldn't mind a light round or two," Mizu smiles a little at that. If she's not the only one going without a weapon, fair is fair. "They're mostly recovered. I didn't want to wait longer to get my tools or we'd be delayed." She crosses her arms, leaning against the wall, muttering, "I've already waited longer than I'd like."
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"That eager to lose, are you?" he says, sliding the wardrobe shut. He continues as he makes his way back over to Mizu, "I should tell you to take your tools and leave. Mostly recovered isn't recovered, and defeating you when you're still injured won't mean much otherwise."
Vergil hesitates for a moment before he holds the pack of tools out to Mizu by the straps.
"Then again, you have interrupted my training. And if you wish to take the place of the heavy bag for the day, who am I to deny you?"
As much as he's tried not to view humans as fragile, inferior beings, he can't entirely deny his own impatience for Mizu's injuries to heal sufficiently. There hasn't been any who provided Vergil the same sort of thrill as their fight in Wintermute, and he's almost find himself craving it. He hasn't... Well, he wouldn't say exactly he's been antsy to fight Mizu again, but there have been some days and nights where he's felt himself tempted to find him again. Vergil always talked himself down though because it wasn't the agreement and Mizu needed time to heal. He had to exert patience that usually came naturally and easily to him.
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Only to receive the tools and to scowl at the idea beating her like this wouldn't mean much. She's barely injured! In far better shape than when she infiltrated Fowler's castle, much less when she reached the top and faced him for the first time. Mizu stares defiantly at Vergil, convinced well enough of her own value. She has to be able to fight in any condition, not simply at full health. Life doesn't wait. She has half a mind to attack Vergil as he is, though she knows he's not as empty handed as he looks, as most people would be. Not while she's holding the tools. Those are too valuable to risk damaging and to force her to find decent ones herself.
With care, Mizu sets the pack of tools down by the door, out of the way of the main area in the living space. She eyes the bag, quite incapable of fighting back, and harumphs. "You can take whatever handicap you wish," Mizu says, "to make it mean something."
She holds her sword by its sheath. "I take it we try to leave the walls standing." She's smiling.
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"Anything broken or damaged is on you to repair or replace," Vergil teases. Most of the time, his jokes are likely difficult to discern considering his tone rarely ever shifts meaningfully enough to show it. But there's perhaps just enough of a smile on his face that it translates to his voice that he doesn't actually hold any expectations of Mizu doing anything of the sort. Vergil walks into his training area, bending down as he picks up a spare pair of handwraps. He tosses them in Mizu's direction. "No blades today if we have any hope of the building still standing by the time we're done."
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She acts like it's nothing.
"You always use those fancy moves when you fight with a sword?" Mizu asks, mouth quirking up. She wraps her hands the way she sees his are, as she hasn't used them before. She trained alone for years, and in combat, the times she had to use her hands, it wasn't planned. No smooth transition. Even when she wrestled Taigen, it wasn't exactly planned. So she protects her hands, a first for that, and steps further into the room, the training area.
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"Not always, no," Vergil replies as Mizu begins wrapping his hands. "The filth in the demon world aren't usually intelligent enough to merit that sort of effort."
A good portion of the demons one would face there are little more than beasts themselves. Their decisions are based on instinct more than careful decision-making. If they appear to be acting upon orders, it's like an illusion crafted by a more intelligent demon who understands their nature and instincts. The situation has most certainly been manipulated in those circumstances. The rest that one might commonly run into are only just barely intelligent enough to follow orders as the rank and file of a would-be army. But regardless of whether it's instinct or orders, Yamato has always dispatched them quickly with little need for Vergil's skills even when presenting themselves in numbers against him.
"But I am not the only one who would be a hazard to the structural integrity of the building with a blade in my hand." Mizu may not have the ability to summon blades or a clone of himself to fight in his stead, but raw power like that wasn't always indicative of how damage one could do. That burning fire in Mizu did plenty on its own from what Vergil had already seen with how he ultimately lost a bit of his control. Vergil rolls his shoulders as Mizu steps back into the training area. "Last time, I'll admit, you surprised me. I wasn't anticipating a brawl. But surprising me isn't the same as impressing me. I want to know if you can do better than that."
Unlike the last time they fought, Vergil doesn't merely stand there. This time he adopts a stance. Vergil turns himself slightly, positioning one leg behind and bringing the fist on the same side just below his chin while the other hovers around his waist.
"I know you don't particularly care about that though. I'm not a fool. I know my curiosity is for my own satisfaction. So, consider this an opportunity to learn and train."
It's not said with the sort of arrogance most might have and even Vergil could easily be accused of using frequently. Instead, it's an acknowledgment of what Mizu has mentioned before of watching how others fight and learning what he can from it. Vergil's certain there's something Mizu can learn today in the absence of a weapon and needing to rely upon his own body as a weapon if what happened last time was any indication. And unlike Mizu, Vergil has trained himself to fight just as well with his fists and feet even if his preference will always be with a sword in his hand.
"I won't hit you with the entirety of my strength." Vergil doesn't say this to condescend. Mizu's felt a bit of Vergil's strength the last time when he was able to fling the other swordsman with little effort on his part. If he were to strike Mizu with all his might, their sparring would be over in a single blow. Even if he managed to somehow not kill Mizu, at the very least, the other man would be out cold in an instant. He trusts Mizu to understand that, which is why he offers no clarification. "You are free to do as you wish."
It's not as though Vergil bruises easily or that he's an easy target to hit even in close quarters.
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Vergil, thankfully, knows that too. Knows his opinion doesn't matter. That makes everything far more acceptable. Tolerable. Comfortable even. As much as Mizu goes everywhere with a sword, it is possible to be caught without it, to have to fight without it. Mizu resists the urge to grab something else to act as a weapon. She's weaker than Vergil. A pure contest of might would go his way. As much as Mizu hates to admit it, even without him using his full strength, it could. No she must use more than that. She must use his strength against him. "You might take down a wall if you did that."
Then he'd have an issue with his neighbor. Not Mizu, though.
She shifts into a stance, adapting from one meant to have a sword, because Mizu has never trained particularly to fight without weapons. Some techniques have come over time. A move here. Another there. The focus, however, has always been swords. Still, she has some experience. She pinned Taigen. Repeatedly.
Mizu closes the gap. A jab. A feint. A move to sweep his front leg out from under him. It isn't a brawl, but Mizu doesn't fight clean either.
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It's not a bad attempt. The thought process is correct, in any case, by Vergil's assessment since he doesn't find the attempted sweep to be fighting dirty. Instead, it's a clear strategy. A jab or two to keep an opponent's attention on protecting their head or torso leaves them significantly more vulnerable to any strikes against their legs usually. It might alter their stance just enough that it will send them stumbling even if it can't actually knock them to the ground. But Vergil is naturally heavier than Mizu and his weight doesn't shift back from that front leg nearly enough to send him crashing to the floor or even remotely stumbling after he slaps away Mizu's initial jab.
His swift response somewhat mirrors Mizu's attempt, but with a more disciplined approach rather than the improvisation that Mizu is using. Vergil lashes out twice with his fists to Mizu's torso, and once with an elbow toward his head. It matters little to him if any of his blows land, however, as the real threat is Vergil's back leg. Vergil steps forward with the small flurry, leading him into a vicious kick wherein he attempts to slam his shin directly into Mizu's outer thigh just above his knee joint to destabilize him. If the kick lands, Mizu will either need to stumble and regain his balance, or he will end up on the floor with the force of Vergil's kick alone. After all, Vergil said this was an opportunity to learn.
He never once said the lessons would be gentle.
Then again, it isn't entirely like their last fight for that reason. Vergil isn't seeking to dominate. As he said before, he's not interested in defeating Mizu without Mizu being at his best. There would be time for a proper rematch later. Right here and now, Vergil is more invested in teaching Mizu. He can't exactly see what Mizu learns from a lesson if he's not allowed to demonstrate what he will do with what he's learned. Thus, regardless of the outcome of his assault, Vergil doesn't seek out another attack on Mizu immediately. If he ends up on the ground, Vergil won't offer a hand to avoid insult or misinterpretation, but he gives Mizu the space to get up again. If he stumbles, Vergil lets him regain his footing without further interference. If he manages to avoid it altogether, Vergil lets Mizu close the gap again with his next attempt.
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The kick doesn't surprise her. She tried the same thing. However, the close fighting means she cannot easily avoid the kick altogether. Without time to think about it, sure Vergil is used to any and all responses to it, Mizu feels it connect, feels herself slide a couple inches across the floor, and rolls with the direction of the force. Down to the floor and, not being followed there by any additional attacks, back up again. Her eyes narrow at the purposeful way Vergil gives her time, but he can do what he wants. She won't be the sore fool who hates something simply because he's the weaker opponent, in strength, in experience, or in training.
The trouble with some of the kicks or slides, on her side, is that her strength isn't enough to bring him down. It would be best to injure or immobilize one of his limbs. Her attacks this time aim toward his joints. The inside of his elbow. His knee. Moves that if hit right could shatter them. Her expectations aren't high, but she commits to the moves nonetheless.
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Eventually, it's during one of these attempts that Vergil forces the kick to connect with his thigh and before Mizu can retract his leg he grabs Mizu's calf. He could maintain a vice grip on Mizu's leg at that point if he really wanted, leaving Mizu with few options for trying to wriggle free. He could also simply sweep Mizu's remaining foot and send him to the floor immediately. But neither of those are the plan. Instead, Vergil aims a cross jab for Mizu's jaw as he pulls on Mizu's leg, drawing him closer and into the punch. Shortly thereafter, Vergil tosses Mizu's leg aside, forcing a continued downward momentum on him. Vergil fists a hand in Mizu's hair and the other at the scruff of his kimono to pull him further in that direction before slamming his knee up towards Mizu's solar plexus with more than enough force to wind Mizu. If the strike connects, Vergil releases Mizu and allows him the space to catch his breath. If not, Vergil follows with a kick that is meant to push Mizu back regardless of connection or not.
"You're thinking too much like a swordsman," he says, the statement a neutral observation rather than some form of condescension or otherwise negative evaluation. Vergil didn't exactly anticipate Mizu to approach this fight any different than he would crossing blades with someone else. He continues, "Steel equalizes. It doesn't care about my size or my strength. I bleed the same as you."
Vergil doesn't spell it out further than that for Mizu, trusting that he at least understand the point that unrelenting attacks aren't going to serve him well in this. When it's a clashing of blades, reclaiming the offense has to be done with extreme care. A poorly timed or executed attempt is how one might find themselves run through and the fight over for a less durable opponent than Vergil. But in a fight like this where Vergil is larger and stronger, he can easily weather a strike and respond with a ferocious counter of his own. In the end, constantly strike at Vergil creates vulnerabilities that Vergil can and already has taken advantage of to strike back without too much concern. Provided that Mizu understands this, it's up to him what he does with that information as far as Vergil is concerned.
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She's been in hand to hand combat before, usually with stronger men than she even if they aren't as strong as Vergil, but they too have been swordsmen and think like them. She's gotten the better of them. Vergil is better, not relying solely on his strength or his healing to get his way, though he used that strength to an irritating point with beautiful technique just now. It could have come earlier. It could come any time.
Mizu wipes one hand across her face and pulls her kimono into place. Oh, she doesn't need to be tidy, but she doesn't want to reveal the bandages across her chest. Vergil might not take its meaning correctly. Instead he could stop the fight because he thinks she's still healing, but in time, if it comes up enough times, he might figure it out. Let him think she cares about her appearance, as she considers how best to attack him.
Her posture returns to a relaxed and ready position. Mizu stares at and into Vergil with the same intensity as the start of a duel. Move and counterattack predicted. An adjustment in her stance. Again. And again. And again. It plays out far more times in her head than between them. Generally not in her favor. To a fault, once fighting, Mizu is not content to sit back and let her opponent come to her. However, she manages to mentally reset. The start of a new fight. Her hands itch for a blade, a wire, something, but she refuses the idea that she must have one of those to defeat Vergil. It's possible to defeat him, even if she does not manage it today. Not that Mizu's given up. Far from it, the desire to defeat Vergil thrums through her with each beat of her heart.
Mizu attacks with the intention of using his reactions or attacks to move behind him and strangle him. It would go too far to try to break his neck.
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He has a moment of it at the very least. Vergil continues to block or slap aside Mizu's attacks, occasionally returning with jabs and kicks of his own when he spies the potential opening. He's pleased to see these are not left unanswered. Mizu is just as aggressive as before, but it appears he's finally understood where he could potentially best someone of a greater size and strength than him. Vergil doesn't let Mizu get a hold on his neck. Opponents Mizu would would face would never allow it to happen and Vergil hardly wants to patronize anyway. But in the absence of his trickery with teleportationβwhich he is notably not using while they spar like thisβthere is only so far and so long he can go before Mizu is able to latch on and he's forced to tuck his chin before making a quick decision.
Vergil could wrench Mizu's arm off not just from around his neck, but clean out of whichever joint or socket Vergil preferred to take it from. However, considering he's not even so much as willing to break one of Mizu's limbs given how much it would delay their next sparring match, Vergil opts not to utilize such brute strength to free himself. Besides, anyone else Mizu might grapple with like this won't have that kind of strength. It would do little good to unleash that sort of strength on him now when his skills are still developing. There can be another time for that as there could be for the use of any of his other skills and abilities.
Thus, the primary issue to address is their distance to one another. Mizu is just short enough relative to Vergil that with the right application of strength, angle, and/or sweep, he could pull Vergil down to the floor. Or Mizu could simply hop straight onto Vergil's back. Either way, it puts Vergil at a disadvantage for escaping when not using brute strength to free himself as it's distance that he needs and either leaves him without it.
With few options, once Mizu has latched on, Vergil quickly strikes behind himself at Mizu with a sharp kick to his groin. It's not a precise kick given their angle to one another and he's more than willing to kick several times if that's what it takes, but hitting the mark isn't the point. The point is that if it connects, it's enough force to knock Mizu back. If it doesn't, it should force Mizu to naturally step back (albeit not for the reasons Vergil assumes Mizu would want to protect that area). Either way, it forces a loosening of the hold on Vergil's neck and provides him with the opportunity to slip free. Vergil's hand is like a vice against Mizu's wrist as he slips out. He's quick to twist that arm behind Mizu's back and draw Mizu in close against him where striking will be far more difficult, the motion so fluid that to an outside observer it'd look more akin to a dance than fight.
"Better. But I won't submit that easily."
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Fuck.
Mizu leaps backward to avoid the kick, dragging Vergil's head with her, because more than any man, she cannot afford to let that kick land. Her move is interrupted, and Vergil gets exactly what he wantsβa way out. His large hands and his powerful strength means Mizu, however, does not. Were she in fear for her life, Mizu could break her wrist or her arm to get out, but that doesn't serve her here. Besides, it's hardly the first time she's been held in this sort of position. There's other moves first, even if some of them would earn Vergil's disapproval. For some reason, in the moment, Mizu cares about that. Stupid really.
"Not only you."
Despite being shorter than him, she bashes her head backward toward his and in a minor fit of spite kicks toward his groin. Either he'll evade it or feel enough pain to distract him long enough. Mizu's quick to learn other people's moves, not that kicking a man in the groin has remained miraculously undiscovered until this date, and uses the chance to each over herself to grab whatever she can grabβjacket, ear, hair, it doesn't matterβand moves into a roll aimed to take him with her, death grip on her arm and all. She can use him as cushioning to land, should it go well, and in so doing perhaps loosen that grip a little bit. Whether she accomplishes it or not, she adjusts her position based off his, to accommodate and bring it with her.
Sometimes Mizu thinks she might need to stuff an explosive in his neck to kill him, but no that probably wouldn't do the trick either.
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The weight of them both going down to the floor so abruptly causes a few things around Vergil's apartment to rattle slightly. But nothing falls from its place. Not yet, in any case. It's not as though the pair of them are simply still after their fall. Mizu starts to adjust his position atop Vergil.
Last time Vergil found himself on his back beneath Mizu, it had been a surprise. There had been no real time to think as they went from swordplay to grappling in an instant, and Mizu became more immediately erratic. But this time, he's a little more prepared. Still hard any time to think, but prepared to find himself in this position. He still has a firm hold on Mizu's wrist between them even if the angle is a touch more awkward now. It gives him a leverage point, however, and he pushes up on Mizu to sidle out from beneath him and attempt to flip Mizu over onto his stomach. Regardless of whether or not that's how Mizu ends up on the floor, they're soon a tangle of limbs as Vergil looks to pin Mizu to the floor and Mizu undoubtedly fights back. But it's here where Vergil's size and weight become much more of a problem rather than when they were standing and exchanging strikes. Vergil isn't shy about pressing himself into Mizu to start wresting control over their position over further and further into his control, and he doesn't intend on relenting until he has a firm hold on Mizu regardless of whatever tactics the other intends to use.
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Even so, Mizu never simply gives in, not easily, same as she does not fight as dirty as she would were she honestly fighting for her life. It isn't even the most she's been crushed, Vergil not weighing more than a door with many men atop it crushing her into the ground. Only when Mizu cannot move in any meaningful way does she let out a huff.
"I get it. You have an advantage on the floor."
He's more challenging than her opponents in the past, Mizu already knew that, and she exercised some restraint as well. Some might call it civility, but she's rarely had reason to use it. Vergil... may be the first. Mizu isn't used to it at any rate, nor of grappling with someone better at it than she is. Yet another failing and flawed approach on her part. Vergil is aggravating but not because he's an ass. He's been anything but. The faults lie with her, and Vergil's showcased that unpleasantly well.
The trouble is she doesn't know what kind of fighters her remaining two possible fathers are. Fowler was large and strong and experienced. Vicious. Yet he called himself one of the less terrifying of the men she seeks. An easier target.
"I want to go again."
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"I'm sure you do." Vergil says as he sits back to give Mizu the space to sit up himself, bringing one of his knees closer and resting his elbow on it and holding that wrist loosely with his opposite hand. If it wasn't for how heavily Mizu is breathing now and even Vergil showing a slight amount of being winded after how much Mizu tried to free himself, anyone looking at them would likely think they just made the odd decision to sit in the middle of Vergil's floor to converse. "But I think that's enough for now. Exhaust yourself too much and you'll end up straying from what technique you've started to develop out of frustration. Better that you maintain your discipline than push beyond your limits today."
Vergil considers it for a moment before he looks away and pushes himself back up to his feet.
"You did well."
It might not have been enough to beat Vergil. His technique, size, and strength all were strong factors in the outcome of their sparring today, and he wouldn't downplay that. But neither would it do well to downplay how much growth Mizu demonstrated in a singular sparring in hand-to-hand. He was adaptive and thoughtful about each of his approaches even if they didn't turn out the results he would have liked. He began with his foundations as a swordsman, but he didn't allow that to limit him. Instead, even as much as it might have frustrated and pissed him off in the moment, he took Vergil's feedback both in his physical actions and words, and did something with it.
So, he didn't win and he might have the right to be dissatisfied with that, but victory was hardly the sole metric to be found here today.
He thinks to offer a hand to Mizu to help him to his feet, but opts instead to begin undoing the wrappings around his hands instead and let Mizu get to his feet on his own.
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To be fair, she didn't expect any form of sparring when she stopped by today, and she wasn't injured. They'll spar again soon. Mizu's come out ahead.
"I'll do better," Mizu promises as she stands, still light on her feet. Her energy has only increased from this exercise. She'll practice the moves on her own time in her own space, both hers and some of the ones she saw him use. If it weren't for Vergil, Mizu would spend practically no time injured at all in Folkmore (so far), and that would be a far stranger feeling.
So she undoes the wraps, mindful of Vergil though there's no more promise of sparring. His apartment hardly competes for her attention, sparse as it is.
"Why are you so good at hand to hand combat?" The question betrays her bias. He's a strong swordsman, and he has all that devil stuff, of which Mizu's certain she hasn't seen the half of. With all that, how did he also become so good at this form of combat? Why did he bother? How is he so damn good at all of it? Necessity, she knows, must be part of the answer, but it's hard to fathom him having a difficult time with... most combat.
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"When one has as obnoxious of a little brother as I do, you learn at quite an early age how to beat the hell out of someone with your fists alone," Vergil says, the answer coming perhaps more naturally and smoothly than anything he's ever said to Mizu. But there's a pause as he's unwrapping one of his hands that he realizes he's never made mention of his brother until now. It's not been anything that he's intentionally hidden necessarily, but Dante has never come up in conversation before now. And why should he? Vergil may (sometimes begrudgingly) miss him, but that's not exactly business for anyone else to know. And no one would exactly think to ask him if he has any siblings anyway. He finishes with unwrapping his hand and begins to roll the wrappings together, seemingly quite focused on the task for a moment. "You would think there might be more peace between twins since our age difference isn't in years, but Dante has a way of always causing a ruckus wherever he goes and he was often close behind me as children."
And as adults, too. Just never close enough because Vergil never allowed it. He swallows back that regret and replaces the wrappings back to their appropriate spot within his training area. Vergil opts to brush past the revelation of a twin brother and anything that might come with it to provide the other half of the answer to Mizu's question.
"There isn't a weapon I cannot master, however. It is something I inherited from my father," he continues as he steps over to the portion of his studio apartment that serves as his sleeping area once more. This time, he collects the amulet from the nightstand, unclasping the golden chain to put it back on. No doubt the thing doesn't look like something Vergil would ever choose for himself, both stone and chain being far warmer than his usual cool tones with red and gold. "As it so happens, I acquired a devil arm for a time that enhanced my hand-to-hand while it was still in my possession, and I do what I can to maintain those skills without it."
Vergil steps over to his wardrobe for a shirt and pulls it on. He doesn't put the necklace above the shirt, keeping it tucked away.
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There is more to Vergil and his twin Dante. Mizu has little context as to what, knowing only the few words Vergil says here about his brother. However, all that is overshadowed by what Vergil says next. Mizu straightens and stares at Vergil hard. The wraps in her hand are forgotten next to some inherited ability to master weapons, compared to whatever a devil arm is improving his hand-to-hand skills, so that he only has to maintain those abilities, not master them in the first place.
"You cheat," Mizu declares, half-shocked half-irritated all to hell. As though Vergil doesn't have enough advantages over her, but he doesn't have to try anywhere near as hard as a normal person, as Mizu, to learn the skills in the first place? Yes, the urge to barrel into him and grapple yet again is there, but Mizu knows that will not (likely) end well for her. Vergil already said they were done, and he's dressed again in an unusual amulet and shirt, all committed to that fact.
That's not fair, Mizu doesn't say. It only increases her desire to beat him, to knock him unconscious by learning to get better the hard way, the long way. Though it is frustrating how much that gets slowed down by being injured. She's always dealt with injuries, but it slows things down. Mizu only has so much time in Folkmore. The thought of leaving without defeating Vergil burns something within her. She will manage it through her own blood and sweat and effort. She rolls the wrappings together messily as that gains far more of her attention. No that isn't how he started, with a brother, but it's part of how he's gotten to where he is now.
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His mother wouldn't have died that day. He wouldn't have lost Dante and struggled to accept him again. He wouldn't have been absent for the entirety of Nero's life. He wouldn't have spent a decade as a slave to his father's enemy and his mother's murderer, and a little over a decade more in the demon realm with his crumbling flesh. He wouldn't have been forced and reduced to so little that he was a mere shell of himself or sometimes, at best, just barely surviving. There would have never been any struggle even once in his life if it were all down to that because why would such privilege allow for anything like that to happen? He would never have been so weak as to lose anyone that he loved, to have himself rent from him so violently, or to have known that bitter taste of defeat after defeat.
But even within the reality that his birth was not enough to prevent the violence and pain that's made up the fabric of Vergil's life: he would not have survived any of it if it was solely down to that alone. That much is certain. It was not his birth that caused Vergil to survive. It was him. His motivation and will to not just live but never to know weakness or helplessness, as he had before, developed his skills beyond mere technical ability, and into something that made him a formidable opponent to all that would oppose him. How else could he have pressed forward as he felt his life fading from his body, hardly able to walk or stand upright any longer?
Mizu knows little of any of it, of course. He's only been told of the helplessness that Vergil felt the day his mother died, and what a driving force that had been for him the rest of his life. And he's now seen firsthand what Vergil can do with and without a blade in his hands, the way he can read and respond to the flow of battle as naturally as he is able to draw breath. But what little Mizu knows doesn't matter to Vergil in the moment as he feels the dismissal of all that he is being boiled down to luck and something more akin to a cheap trick or tactic with just two words.
Vergil firmly slides his wardrobe door shut once more. He stands there a moment, his jaw tensing slightly and relaxing once more before he decides against it. He's learned to walk with his nightmares and his failures, accept them as part of himself. But he's far from comfortable with the notion of acknowledging them to someone else. Not even in his own defense. He simply shouldn't have to defend himself. His own merit and skill and continued existence should speak for itself.
It also shouldn't bother him that Mizu's opinion of his skills may be undermined by his nature as a half-devil. What's the opinion of a human who hardly knows anything about him? All the more reason not to defend himself against what feels an accusation. But it does. Bother him. There's no reason why Vergil should even bother sparring with someone like Mizu. What difference does it make to him if he has the skills enough to survive his quest for revenge? He owes Mizu absolutely nothing, and a human arguably has no business crossing blades with someone like Vergil. But Vergil has taken that time. He's found reward in it. He's found someone that he...respects. That he admires the drive and determination of, and the strength there is to be found in refusing to give up simply because the odds are stacked against him.
And that same person says that he cheats to have his skill.
Vergil wants it to not matter. To reduce Mizu down to what he is as he just did to Vergil. But it matters and he can't bring himself to truly do the same.
"If you wish to think of it that way, so be it."
Any semblance of the ease to which he spoke of Dante or offered his explanation has evaporated, but he doesn't sound angry or terse. He's noticeably withdrawing, not lashing out. So, Vergil is merely to the point and concise, firmly declaring that it doesn't matter as he rejoins Mizu. He nods to the wrappings messily rolled in Mizu's hands.
"Keep them. For your own practice or however else you see fit to use them."
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Instead Mizu moves to gather her things. She glances down at the wraps, unused to protecting herself during practice but acknowledging it's likely for the best. Mizu stands there awkwardly, as though she doesn't belong and shouldn't be there, even as Vergil continues to talk evenly and calmly. It's not the kind of situation where Mizu leans on manners, not after being that rude. So she nods, muttering "okay," and adds them to the set of tools Vergil gave her. That itself makes her feel further uncomfortable. He didn't have to do that. Mizu didn't expect it. Honestly, he doesn't entirely make sense to her. It's so much easier when they're sparring than the bits of conversation. Mizu admits she might be escalating this moment, but it rings true to other moments, so she isn't certain.
"It's only a couple days," more like three but Mizu always underestimates it, "until I'm completely healed. Only a couple after that before I've remade what I need for the naginata."
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The other swordsman provides his proposed timeline and Vergil considers it. Or more accurately, his gaze drops to Mizu's side that took the brunt of Vergil's attack. Without laying eyes on the wound itself, there's no telling if Mizu's estimate is accurate. And that's assuming Vergil even has a decent enough sense of how long a wound like that would take to heal on a human without any sort of acceleration which he frankly doubts he possesses. But it seems a fair estimation to Vergil all the same. His movements today didn't seem particularly inhibited by his wound.
"Four days then," Vergil says, lifting his eyes to meet Mizu's again with a slight nod. "Whether you're ready for me or not, I'll find you again."
And if he's not ready, then that's on Mizu to figure out and entirely his fault for putting himself in that position. Vergil doesn't think Mizu would inherently disagree with that either. He probably wouldn't have even argued with Vergil about sparring again if Vergil hadn't been so adamant that he wanted Mizu completely healed first. With Mizu seemingly intent on leaving, Vergil walks to the door to politely open it for him.
"And as far as keeping score is concerned, today doesn't count." It was a training session. Not a real contest. A chance for Vergil to practice and for Mizu to learn. "Next time I see you, I won't hold back as much as I did today. And I won't relent until I've claimed my victory."
He won't allow his skills to be called into question again by the end of it.
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It's a promise that they will carry on, and that proving true, for next time and the time after that, is far more important than anything else. Mizu will not have the chance to improve enough to beat him unless they keep going. Her step is a little lighter at his words. It's what she wants.
"We'll see about that," Mizu says. As much as she knows how it will likely go, she refuses to accept defeat before it comes. That only guarantees it. "I'll be ready."
And that's that. Almost none of their interaction what she expected that day, some better, some worse. She leaves for Wintermute where the chill will center her. Mizu can always think better there.
Either 5/6 or 5/13 because the week between doesn't exist
Then she throws up a hand to pause the fight. "Wait. Give me a few moments."
Mizu sheaths her sword, sits on the street cross-legged despite the fact that makes her want to whimper, and focuses her breathing into something approaching meditation. It is difficult with Vergil there and clearly intent on her, but Mizu has only practiced this new ability on minor injuries not worth healing save to verify that the ability exists. Her mind stills, and she imagines her leg whole and hale. A refreshing coolness passes through her, and she knows she is healed. Not only her leg, what she intended, but everything, every little thing.
Only then does she open her eyes and pay Vergil any mind. "What?" Mizu asks, fairly certain he said something.
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It's not what Vergil said. Even Mizu is liable to recognize that even without having fully attended to what Vergil said given the distinct lack of additional words.
Just before Mizu signaled to Vergil to pause their sparring with one another, Vergil had been on the fast approach. Even with the significant differences in their strength, he knows that if given an inch, Mizu will take a mile. Not following up a clean strike with more to keep Mizu on the move is a surefire way to ensure the other swordsman can take the lead on their fight. But Mizu threw up a hand and asked for Vergil to stop for the moment. So, Vergil came to a halt as quickly as he could, dropping his blade from his intended strike to something less offensive and regarded Mizu warily as Mizu sheathed his blade.
Vergil wouldn't necessarily acknowledge the reason for the furrow in his brow to be one of concern, but Mizu refuses to yield while he remains conscious never mind asking for a break. It merited asking if something was wrong. When there was no response to his question, Vergil placed Mirage Edge on his back and further closed the distance between them to stand before Mizu as the other swordsman seemingly sat there. Vergil canted his head slightly as the scent of blood on the air lessened and the little signs of injury that he could see with even just a cursory look at Mizu dissipated. He's tempted to get a closer look to be sure this isn't some sort of trick, but he remains rooted to the spot where he stands instead and provides his single word response.
"Not exactly a useful in the heat of battle," he says less as a criticism and more trying to puzzle out the reason for it. Mizu always seemed more driven to push his skill and talents based on his natural power. Perhaps even pushing beyond that with how Vergil has had to be so firm with the rule that Mizu must be more or less fully recovered before they spar again after each fight. Vergil's eyes narrow slightly as he scrutinizes Mizu a bit further. His gaze is sharp enough that it wouldn't be out of the question to feel like he was already puzzling out the answer to his questions already by staring into some part of Mizu where said answer lies. He's not a mind reader though, and he ends up asking bluntly. "You haven't expressed interest in power like this before. Why?"
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"No, it's not useful in battle," Mizu agrees. She supposes like any skill it might be improved with training and experience. That will come in time. However, she did not gain the ability in order to use it in the heat of battle. She doesn't want to beat Vergil because she has this ability. That would be cheap and meaningless to her. It won't do anything for her at home, for her when she leaves this place or so she assumes. She must be ready for the conditions under which she can seek her revenge. The same way she is receiving training for combat without weapons, she must improve her skills at combat without abilities.
She sighs a little and shrugs, as though it's no important matter. "I grew tired of waiting so long between our bouts," Mizu says, "We have no guarantee of how long we will be here. I need to improve as much as possible in the time I am here."
Being injured itself doesn't bother her, certainly not enough to ask Thirteen for an ability around it. Mizu's been injured in a myriad of ways more times than she can count. She would fight Vergil injured if he let her. She needs to improve at fighting while injured. Starting injured. She gets plenty of experience fighting him with injuries sustained during their sparring. Certainly, if he enjoys it half as much as she does, Vergil would want to fight more frequently. It's possible someone else here can heal her as quickly and as easily, but what that entails, even if it is only asking someone else for help, is less desirable to Mizu than handling it herself.
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Rather than discussing the potential limits of Mizu's new ability and the implications therein, he says, "If you hunger for defeat that greatly, who am I to deny you?"
It's reasonable to question the limits considering even Vergil's abilityβwhich arguably has more utility considering that what would be a fatal injury can prove otherwise instantly and without thoughtβhas its limits. Until they know how frequently Mizu can heal himself and how severe the injuries can be before they outpace the ability, it's best that they keep experimentation with it a bit limited and concentrated. And Vergil doesn't really trust that Mizu is necessarily thinking of his ability in those terms. Not when he's yet to witness a limit to Vergil's own healing ability and with his own hardheadedness to simply throw himself forward in pursuit of his goals as much as possible.
But it made Mizu smile. And regardless of potential limits, there won't be weeks between their sparring any longer. So, Vergil doesn't need to be the voice of reason all the time even if he's maintaining it privately. He doesn't need to take a happy moment when there are likely so few for Mizu, and crush it beneath his heel. He can let it be and just tease Mizu instead. Even if on the surface it doesn't necessarily sound like he's teasing.
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So losing to Vergil before. Today. Tomorrow. A hundred times. That is not defeat. Those are stepping stones to her victory, to her triumph, not only to her revenge but to getting the better of him. It will happen. Mizu will make it happen, no matter how hard she has to train or how many injuries she must heal. She will defeat him before she returns home and carry that memory with her as well.
Mizu draws her sword and returns to a proper starting position. "You will eat those words," Mizu declares. Her commitment, her focus, everything is on this moment. On winning this time, not that far off someday. Each day, each fight, she believes it's possible. Perhaps not in a fair manner, but Mizu cares nothing for honor. Other men may die with their honor. She'd rather live. Kill.
She springs forward, aggressive and precise and quick. As quick as her slender form allows. A bit quicker than humanly possible, for she is a Myth, but not so much it's obvious, not so much Mizu notices.
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Vergil had come quite close after Mizu put a pause to their spar to test his new ability. So, the distance is shorter than when they typically begin to clash blades, but Vergil is no less prepared to receive the other swordsman when he surges forward for his attack. He draws Mirage Edge and parries Mizu's strikes. Those that he cannot, he dodges. Mizu is faster than a baseline humanβhis Myth abilities see to thatβbut he's still not quick enough to best Vergil's own natural speed, leaving his blade to strike a false afterimage instead. Eventually, Vergil seeks to put a little distance so that he can reclaim the tempo for himself once again.
On Mizu's next strike, he locks their blades together and twists, driving their blades towards the ground with the intention of wedging Mizu's blade into the loose cobblestone. With his considerable strength, Vergil could leave Mizu without his blade entirely for the remainder of their sparring, but he's not interested in that fight today. Mizu should be able to yank it free with his own strength. He's more interested in creating leverage as he uses Mizu like a springboard, kicking off the other man to both free his blade and try to part Mizu from his own.
Vergil doesn't give Mizu the luxury of recovery time from the sudden foot to his gut, and even if he's not freeing Mizu of his blade for the remainder of the fight doesn't mean that he's simply going to allow the other swordsman to pluck it from the ground without any resistance. Summoned blades appear from above Mizu like a bed of nails, hanging in the air only long enough for them to form before they rain down upon him. Mizu should be familiar enough with them by now to know Vergil's formation of them is tight. Gaps between the blades are present, but the speed at which they fall makes purely dodging into those gaps without cutting a few of the out of the air as they fall near impossible. Being struck by them is also a poor outcome not just for their initial injuries but because they seem to cause whatever they strike to move so slowly they almost appear to come to a standstill. If they strike their target, Mizu is vulnerable to Vergil's follow-up swing of Mirage Edge.
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It's not graceful. Mizu moves to fling her sword backward. First, the tip travels between the gap of two stones. Vergil forces the breath out of her chest, and that movement speeds the sword with greater force. It releases from her hand and embeds into the wall of the building behind her. That leaves it stuck farther away from Vergil, but that's not what Mizu meant to do. Nor the first time her sword's gotten stuck somewhere. No time for frustration, however.
Bare handed, Mizu throws herself to the side, rolling and dodging away from the forest of blades. Even the castle she invaded didn't go to the expense of making so many swords and rods come out of the walls and ceilings, but those would have to be made, not summoned at their convenience. Quick to return to a standing position, Mizu blocks the follow up attack with her wrist. The sword slices through her sleeve, but it comes up against solid steel, not muscle and bone, beneath it. Yet Mizu wishes to hold that contest of strength even less than that with swords. She moves past Vergil, running right toward the wall, to spring up it, compress, and shoot back across the alley toward her sword. Which, supposing she gets it, allows her to return to balance and even attack.
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Mizu swiftly moves behind Vergil, and the half-demon tracks the other swordsman as he uses the wall to reach his destination. It's the safer option, of course. The alternative would be putting his back to Vergil, and that wouldn't end well for Mizu. Not that there isn't still the opportunity to cut Mizu down out of the air, but Vergil chooses not to go that route. Instead, he offers a minor complication to Mizu's landing.
As Mizu speeds toward his sword, Vergil reverses his grip on Mirage Edge. He slashes the air twice in rapid succession. Two vertical bands of energy emerge that would form an X if perfectly overlayed with one another, following the arc of Mirage Edge's strikes out forward and far beyond Vergil's reach. They travel significantly faster than the horizontal band that Vergil needs time to form, making them likewise significantly faster than Mizu in the air. But the point isn't for them to land upon the swordsman's person so much as to create some impediment to cleanly grabbing his blade. Thus, they tear at the cobblestone beneath, launching rock, earth, and gravel as they cut through the ground and eventually scar the wall beside Mizu's sword rather than on the blade itself. (The last thing Vergil needs or wants to do, after all, is break Mizu's blade and put an end to their contest so soon.) It's nothing that should truly hinder Mizu from collecting his blade, but there may be a few bumps and bruises for his troubles. With a skillful twirl of the blade in his hand, Vergil changes his grip back to normal.
Drawing back for a moment, Vergil meets Mizu's attack with a thrust of his own. In doing so, he covers the several feet of distance between them easily with the single motion rather than any steps. There's enough momentum behind it that regardless of whether Mirage Edge buries itself in Mizu or simply collides with Mizu's blade, the pair of them will likely find themselves moving in that same direction upon contact for a little while longer. Even with Mizu putting up resistance, there's little slowing Vergil's momentum, and Mizu may find it slightly disorienting with Vergil moving both of them at seemingly the same speed as his teleports as it's not just Vergil's afterimage that trails behind them. Which really was the point more than hoping for injury. His follow-up strike is with the intention of sending Mizu into the air. But rather than following Mizu up there himself if he's successful, Vergil will instead wind up and hurl Mirage Edge after him, the blade spinning like a potentially deadly top.
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It's one of those moments where time seems to slow, except time slowing doesn't even return their movements to a normal human speed. Mizu sets aside that issue as the facts of the matter. It shouldn't be surprising, and Mizu trusts instead that the sense of danger comes from something more than the reminder Vergil can move (them) very quickly. Her eyes run over her surroundings, and Mizu spots a chimney rising out of the opposite building. Her hand reaches inside to pull on a supply of thin solid rope that is part of her expanded inventory thanks to Thirteen's sense of whimsy. It also benefits her here.
The strike sends her upward, and Mizu throws the looped end of the rope across toward the chimney. It reaches it, barely large enough, and threatens to come back off. By that time, Mirage Edge whirls toward her, and Mizu sacrifices precious time to let the rope settle before jerking it to pull herself partly out of the way of the blade. There's little time to consider. Mizu curls up her body and holds her sword at a defensive angle. The sword scrapes against hers, and the power behind it reverberates up her arm. It continues to spin. The next spin it hits steel wrapped around her ankle. The third hits the bottom of her shoe, slicing through it and into her foot.
Mizu slams against the roof and forces herself into a standing position. Even if she could heal herself quickly then and there, she wouldn't. Blood stains the roof below her foot, and Mizu motions for Vergil to follow her. Come along. It's warmer than Mizu would prefer, but she ignores that, centers herself, and attacks Vergil the moment he comes up.
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It's not just Vergil that lands on the roof. He leaps into the air higher than any man could on his own before jumping off the wall to give himself the additional height. It's enough to clear the buildingβit only a modest two-storey buildingβbut he doesn't come to land down on the tiles just yet. Vergil teleports himself even higher and further out of reach, hanging in the air a moment before his clone manifests with a movement of his arm. With a nod of his head, Vergil sends the clone ahead of himself. The demonic spectre races forward, drawing its blade for an overhead attack to meet Mizu while Vergil safely lands on the roof.
It's two against one, but Vergil isn't a fool. He knows he won't win by numbers alone with Mizu. The swordsman has previous expertly handled contending with twin attacks from both Vergil and his doppelganger even if the spectral version of Vergil has come at his behest rather than Mizu's victory over it. And he wouldn't expect anything different. Even if Mizu were more dissimilar when it comes to his solitude during a fight, he is always mindful of his environment and that includes the presence of others.
Once again, Vergil surges forward with his blade. This time when he finds Mizu, he stabs rapidly again and again and again and again while his clone maintains the more practiced forms of cuts and slashes. If he was attacking in a more lethal manner, Vergil would be even faster with his stabs. It would likely be hundreds of wounds before Mizu could finish drawing and releasing a steady breath. But he holds himself back enough that Mizu still has a shot at defending himself from Vergil's attacks while not making it a guarantee with his attention needing to be split between two half-demon.
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Based off the attacks they make, Mizu uses her weapon to force greater distance between her and the distraction. Were it only a guarantee she could steal Vergil's blade from him by anchoring it in her body, she would. However, that sword is no regular sword, and even should he lose his grip on it, he could call it back to himself and leave her with dreadful bleeding, worse than that coming from her foot, for the foolish move. Equally, buying space from Vergil is only a move that helps in a moment while sacrificing so much more.
Perhaps her choice is no less foolish. Mizu steps between them and thrusts the end of her naginata against the double to propel herself all the faster toward Vergil. She twists in the air to avoid his latest attack with only partial success as they move quickly together. Pain burns along her torso where she cuts herself against the edge. It doesn't matter. Mizu already pulls an explosive out, using her teeth to start the process. The wick burns down as she comes closer to Vergil. She stabs it into his armpit, set to use him to shield her from the worst of it. He may not be so large as the giant of a man she faced, but he's harder to kill. Though it's not like she's stabbing him in the neck with it.
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Once safely landed, Mizu is released and set down gently. The clone doesn't linger, however. By the time Mizu's on his feet, the blast has already come and gone, leaving dust and smoke in its wake. Having enacted the will of its master, the clone dissipates into wisps of its own blue smoke akin to Mirage Edge when it's dismissed.
Vergil's own landing is much less smooth than Mizu. The blast is blinding in both light and the pain it inspires and Vergil's world spins as he's lifted off the rooftop. Despite his grip, Mirage Edge falls from his hand somewhere along the way, although he couldn't rightly say where it ends up. He barely has any sense of where he is, only that he bounces and strikes and skids before he comes to wherever it is he's landed. He's only aware of the scent of burnt flesh and blood, his eyes stinging, and a maddening, deafening ring in his ears afterward.
His next breaths are raspy and wet, the taste of copper in the back of his throat. Vergil's vision swims as he sits up, the ground trying to become his walls and sky. The most he can make sense of is that the building stands between him and Mizu if his clone was successful, if he held onto his concentration for it long enough. It's of little consequence though if the shooting, hot pain in his side is any indication. Vergil blindly reaches around until his fingertips graze the chunk of shrapnel that's embedded itself into him. It takes a moment for him to get a proper grip. He has to close his eyes to shut out his still correcting vision before he can, but it at least gives him a moment to steady his breath first. Unlike removing the sword from his hand, Vergil isn't quite so quiet. A blade is a smooth edge. Shrapnel is significantly less so. What starts as a grunt and growl eventually tears out a howl of pain as it loosens and dislodges from the half-devil. He quiets down quickly enough though once it's removed.
Throwing it aside, Vergil tucks his legs beneath him and breaths through the discomfort as his body repairs the wound. Each breath is less raspy than the last and eventually, Vergil spits the blood from his mouth. He holds out a slightly shaky hand, and Mirage Edge returns to him from wherever it was sent. This time, the force of its return has a bit of an effect and Vergil must steady himself before he can use Mirage Edge as leverage.
Vergil rises once more to his feet. There's a slight sway for just a moment as he's still slightly hunched over, using the sword more as a cane than anything else. Like a newborn fawn or calf, he takes an unsteady half-step in his initial attempt to right himself. But after a pause, Vergil rights himself properly and he's firmly planted back to the ground once he does. Despite the cuts and scrapes, and the blossoming bruise to the side of his face, he would appear no worse for wear in the end.
With his significant injuries more or less done healing, he looks for Mizu, assuming that the swordsman went looking for Vergil for one reason or another.
When their eyes meet, he says, "I can still fight."
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In the end, Mizu cannot see the explosion itself or what happens to Vergil. Her view is blocked, and Mizu struggles against the thing that looks like Vergil but isn't to do so. It doesn't work. They land, and it sets her down with gentleness she doesn't deserve. Mizu would demand answers of it except it disappears. Mizu's heart thumps hard in her chest. Did she get it wrong? Did she kill Vergil? Cross the single line they agreed not to cross, the line it's felt impossible for her to cross with what she's currently capable of. She did not strike it into his head or neck, for concern that might go too far, or use the wire she carries to try to decapitate him. Reasonable limits, Mizu thought.
Walking hurts, both because of the wound to her foot and the fresh slice into her flesh. It matters not at all. With her weapon to stabilize her, she moves quickly around the building they were just atop. Vergil did not land back in the street with her, so he must be somewhere else. She cannot easily reach the top, so she first will check the entire perimeter. Something releases in her when she sees him breathing. Little as Mizu generally cares about honor or lying to others, she's glad she hasn't made so much a mistake that Vergil pays for. He looks worse than she expected. In another moment, he straightens and looks much better, though Mizu cannot tell if that is his healing or his pride.
Other minor injuries remain, something Mizu expects of most people but not of Vergil. It should be a thrill of success, a mark of progress to wound him enough that something sticks. Though Mizu marks the knowledge, the way she remembers everything that could help her, she would call the fight there ifβ
A pleased smile crosses Mizu's face at his words, so similar to her own time and time again. Mizu returns her sword to its state and wraps herself in her steel guards, a quick movement despite the pain. "As can I," Mizu assures him.
Not that she used the break, the pause, to heal. Her mind was nothing close to calm. With the same respect she expects from him when she says those words, Mizu shrugs back her shoulders, returns to a good stance, and flies forward. Curiosity as well drives her. She returns to the technique of attacks of attrition, those designed to wound and to slow him down. Before, they'd do nothing, but Mizu needs to know whether that is still the case.
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So, she doesn't need to land strikes to wound and slow him down. As it is, he's already slowed down relative to normal. As ready as Vergil is to fight again and as much as he still holds his own seemingly easily enough with what he's been reduced to relying upon, it's more an illusion of being hardly worse for wear than the truth. An injury such as the one Mizu bestowed upon him with the grenade takes a bit of time for Vergil to recuperate from the expenditure of demonic energy to heal. Never mind using his clone to bring Mizu to safety just moments before. It serves as evidence that for Vergil, it's not just his abilities or raw strength that define his skill. He has a sharp mind and is attuned deeply to the rhythm and flow of their sparring that he doesn't need to move at a speed faster than Mizu can track with his eyes to avoid being sliced.
But before Mizu can find any potential comfort in the evidence that Vergil has slowed a bit, Vergil starts to gradually find his second wind. As Vergil focuses less on the dull throb of his side as the last of the injury truly heals, and more on predicting Mizu's next move, Mirage Edge slowly begins to glow brighter again. The more they clash, the greater the distance from the spectral blade to its afterimage. Mizu gets a strike past Vergil's defenses as he sometimes tends to, but rather than finding Vergil stumbling back or faltering, Vergil doesn't hesitate and attempts to exploit the inherent vulnerability in landing a strike by returning one to Mizu. He ignores the pain in his side, the wound healing just as quickly as it always does, to follow up regardless of whether he lands one strike after the next or not.
He's more than a little determined not to lose.
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Mizu presses hard, despite the blood starting to soak into her clothes and the blood marking her steps on the ground as they move over and over again. He also heals. Slower. But heals. Vergil finds no reason to wait to heal himself (or perhaps it is not choice but fact). Mizu fails to take necessary advantage of Vergil's weakness, though she notes how long it takes Vergil to recover. Should she would him so severely in the future, she knows the length of her window. Her teeth grind, but Mizu has no time to ponder on that reaction. Not in the middle of combat.
Her sword finds purchase, dealing lasting damage to Vergil's clothes but no more. She twists to avoid his attack. The move avoids Mirage Edge itself, but the flow of their movements pushes her into the afterimage. A small grimace as she earns yet another injury. Honestly, someone could guess she's the one who got too close to a grenade with these injuries she's building up. Despite it, Mizu blocks the next attack and the next, though the pain in her foot makes it harder to hold the proper footwork. Her sandal is damaged, and her foot slips on the blood when she stays in place too long.
Clearly, everything is as normal. Vergil. Her. Nothing changed but the firmness of their determination. It starts to snow around them on the previously clear day. Mizu thinks little of it, when it is likely due to the fox spirit. A few flakes then more. Mizu takes a step back to grab a handful of snow out of the air and rub it across her face. Its coolness brings her back to her senses. Vergil's fine. She's... fine enough. The pain fades from her focus and attention, and Mizu attacks with excellent technique despite her injuries. Fast and hard, even going for the point of impact from the explosion, should it be a sensitive spot.
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He's impressed with Mizu. Consistently, he's impressed with Mizu. It's almost enough to make Vergil wonder if perhaps even with his improved appreciation for humans if perhaps he is still a little too harsh on his opinions. But that's unlikely the case, he thinks. Mizu is just simply...remarkable. He pushes through pain. He maintains technique and form far beyond what should be reasonable. Perhaps really the only criticism Vergil can offer is in his willingness to throw his life away in pursuit of his goal. It would be more than a little hypocritical, of course, with everything that Vergil had once discarded for the sake of power, but it doesn't make it any less true. Vergil has seen it time and time again. Technique eventually frays giving way to a more base, animalistic instinct. As though killing Vergil bears the same importance as each breath he draws for his continued existence. He bleeds and bleeds and bleeds, and no drop of it seems to serve a discouragement or a push to yield for Mizu.
So, he's remarkable. But he's a remarkable fool.
Vergil's side isn't as tender by the time Mizu attempts to exploit it for his gain. There's no loss of control or form, nor any attempt to retreat and withdraw, but it's one of the rare times that Vergil makes a sound when struck by Mizu. He grits his teeth hard, jaw clenched as he tries to suppress the noise. He's successful insomuch that it does not carry far beyond them, but Mizu will have surely heard it regardless of his efforts. He strikes back not with Mirage Edge, but with his fist to Mizu's jaw to knock him back. It's not hard to see why as Vergil wants the space as he summons swords around Mizu. They spin around the other swordsman much like the spiral Vergil tends to summon to make space for himself. But rather than pointing outward in a protective formation as they would when circling Vergil, they point toward Mizu. They'll only hover a moment before Vergil wills them to stop and converge upon the center point that Mizu happens to occupy. Whether they pierce their target or Mizu is successful in deflecting them all and breaking them before they strike, Vergil leaps at him with an overhead swing to follow up.
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Had she the time, Mizu would give Vergil a look that conveys exactly what she thinks of moves like this. However, the numerous sharp pointed objects rain down toward her in less time than that would take. The pain she is in is nothing. Mizu moves toward one side, sweeping those blades aside first in the small time that buys her from the rest. Her sword continues moving, and Mizuβfuck the lesson about the disadvantage in going to the floorβdrops in a roll to the ground as her sword sweeps aside the rest.
Well. Almost all the rest.
One sword deflects but not far enough. It pierces her arm. Mizu cries out in frustration, and pain, even as she continues to roll back to standing. No time to concern herself with the latest injury because Vergil attacks again. There's no time for anything but to block the blow while redirecting it away from her. The force of his attack reverberates through her, and her body frees itself of yet more blood as a consequence. His strike need not land to wound her. Even so much costs her dearly. A moment most people might consider the right time to concede.
Instead, Mizu moves in and, despite her body's protests, switches to a one handed grip on her sword. She reaches for Vergil's arm, to use to pull herself in and, though it likely will not land, skewer him from the side with her sword. Defeat is for those who accept it.
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Thus, it hits like a gale from a storm and Vergil is engulfed in a blue light similar to that of his spectral manifestations, blasting outward in the blink of an eye in a wide radius that sends snow flying out and forcing back Mizu's blade before it can hit its target. If Mizu manages to hold on tight enough to Vergil that he's merely lifted by the transformation rather than thrown, he'll find in place of smooth skin to be scales akin to that of a reptile beneath his hand. Despite the reptilian armor though, Vergil runs feverishly hot like this, albeit none of the infernal energy exhausting from his horns or arms burns to the touch. It's the clone Mizu has seen time and time again made truly real and solid albeit without the Yamato sheathed.
Vergil's tail lashes behind him.
If Mizu thought Vergil was quick and strong before, he is about to have a much truer demonstration of Vergil's demonic power.
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The fact he gets an additional limb in the form of a tail is absolutely unfair. The name of the game the whole time they've sparred, however, so sure. Of course it's Vergil. Mizu bets that new skin is tougher than before. Harder to pierce or slash. Her job's never been easy, and she wouldn't enjoy fighting Vergil if it were.
Unfortunately, while Vergil's grown stronger and faster, Mizu's strength quavers. Her wounds are numerous, and the blood loss makes it harder to stay on her feet. Her stubbornness carries her far, but her attacks are weaker, her movements sluggish, and her vision going dark around the edges. Still, he'll have to remove her sword and prove his win to get it.
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It won't be much longer. Vergil is certain of it. Either he claims Mizu's sword or he simply passes out again from his injuries. There are no alternatives at this point.
He'd like to try to for the former if at all possible and give Mizu the opportunity to heal from his injuries. But if it ends up the latter... Well, Vergil's apartment isn't far and Mizu isn't particularly heavy even with his weights on his ankles and wrists.
Mizu strikes out again and their blades meet, gliding along the edge of one another until they meet one another's guards. A clawed hand comes to the dull side of Mizu's blade and leverages it downward to start creating an uncomfortable twist of Mizu's wrists to maintain a hold on it. As he begins to twist the blade into this position, Vergil dismisses Mirage Edge so that he can more freely grab the hilt and fully wrench it from Mizu's hands. If he's successful, he leaps back with a teleport, poised Mizu's katana in his right hand, and Mirage Edge once again manifested albeit in his left hand. If he's not able to wrestle the katana away, he turns quickly and manifesting Mirage Edge, he drives the pommel as hard as he can behind himself and toward Mizu's center with enough force that in his condition, he should be sent tumbling to the ground.
"That's enough."
While in this form, it's still recognizably Vergil's voice. But there's an inhuman quality to it. Despite being in the open, his voice almost sounds as though it is reverberating, layering over itself.
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His voice cuts through it, even as she starts to step toward him. Were they fighting to the death, she would carry on. She's faced dozens of men before, starting without a weapon. Her state would not deter her. With Vergil, however, Mizu can acknowledge there's no further victory at this point. Her steps lead her not toward him but the nearest wall. Mizu turns to lean against it and slowly, with as much control as she can muster, slide down.
Her knees jut up before her torso, and that brings a large wince as it pulls at the long slice across her body. Despite the blood flowing freely from one arm, Mizu physically rearranges her legs to sit cross legged. Blood soaks the snow around her. Indeed so much of the snow is red, it's striking. The color she associates with other people, not herself. Blue is her color. Her mind's wandering when Mizu needs it to focus. She grabs a large handful of clean white snow and holds it against her face. A painful shiver runs through her, but it clears her mind. Mizu feels more herself. More centered. For however long that lasts, she has to focus and meditate. Her eyes close, and Mizu focuses on the lessons swordfather gave her. His voice runs through her mind, a comfort, and her attention turns toward her new ability. To heal herself.
It is harder than any time before, the minor practice before today and even when she healed her leg. Her injuries are worse, and her ability to focus lessened. Something happens, but Mizu nearly passes out during it, her exhaustion so great. She straightens her spine forcefully, winces at the pain that still brings, and admits that what she can do that moment is over. Mizu runs over the sensation of her injuries. Her foot no longer hurts. That wound is healed. The rest, she cannot tell if there is any improvement.
Mizu groans and moves to stand again. The pain is nothing new, and she has looked after herself a long time.
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Vergil waits patiently for Mizu to be done, idly running through a few kata with Mizu's sword to keep himself occupied. For being a blade pulled from a book, it's not terrible. It's balanced and he knows well enough the edge is sharp and clean. But it's not the Yamato. Vergil doesn't have a chance to ruminate upon that, however, as he's interrupted by Mizu attempting to stand on his own. He rolls his eyes slightly before narrowing his stance once more. Walking over, he returns Mizu his blade, allowing him to sheathe it for himself. Vergil anticipates protest and struggle, so the katana barely has a moment to click back into its scabbard before Vergil bends down and scoops Mizu up off his feet.
Despite the swiftness of the movement, Vergil is at least careful of potentially still open wounds on Mizu's person. He's certain that it's Mizu's uninjured arm that's against him, and while it's a firm hold, it's not crushing and potentially putting pressure on any slashes that might remain along Mizu's side.
"You take more than a few steps and you're going to pass out," he says, providing an explanation for the sudden bridal carry. Vergil's tone likely implies that he doesn't particularly care the implications of this for Mizu's pride regardless of the apparent hypocrisy. Vergil begins carrying Mizu off in the direction of his apartment building. "You can rest at my apartment. If you wish to leave after you've regained enough strength to manage returning to your home on your own, you may."
It will likely only be an hour or two. Long enough for perhaps a small amount of sleep and some food, and Mizu should be steadier on his feet. Perhaps even possess the ability to heal more of his injuries before he goes. Regardless, Vergil doesn't imagine that Mizu will stay for longer than that. Even if the pair of them are doing marginally better at holding a conversation with one another, they never...just spend time in one another's presence for the sake of it. And once the purpose of ensuring that Mizu won't simply pass out on the way to his secluded cabin is concluded... Mizu isn't one to linger in Vergil's experience.
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It's not the first time Vergil's carried her, though usually Mizu is actually unconscious for the act. When someone's unconscious, it's simply necessary to carry them. Awake and alert enough to remember the act, Mizu finds it wholly different. "You forgot your jacket," Mizu says for lack of anything else to say. His hold is warm. The farther they get from the snow, no longer falling, the warmer it gets in the regular spring summer air. This indignity is simply the price of losing. Between the two of them, anyone would suspect she's the one who survived an explosive, not him.
Why must Vergil live in one of the most populous housing options? Mizu would rather not be carried at all, but worse that she's carried to his lodgings instead of her own. Rin lives there too and could see her. No matter how well she is when next they see each other, if Rin sees her so hurt, she'll worry. Nor is there any point in attempting to hide her identity. That will only draw attention. All in all, being carried is a terrible idea.
"Entirely unnecessary," Mizu murmurs under her breath. Never mind that it hurts to breath. She's survived worse. Yes she was unconscious for multiple days, and Ringo brought her home to swordfather, but she survived. Fine. Mizu suffers the indignity with what little pride she can manage. It isn't even the first time he's carried her today. It reminds her of the explosion, and the way Vergil sent his double, that winged tailed form, to shield her and set her gently on the ground. It makes no sense, less sense than now, even if he knew he couldn't be killed. That's not how fighting is supposed to work between opponents. He could have ended the fight much sooner if he'd held her close, forced her to take some of the damage.
If she were in a better state, Mizu would keep her mouth shut. Instead she mutters, "You don't make sense."
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It's only Mizu's statement that he doesn't make any sense that garners Vergil's attention because the statement itself doesn't make any particular sense to him. He glances down at Mizu then, frowning a little before looking ahead once more. Although Vergil is willing to ignore the injury to Mizu's pride in being carried like this, he understands it. And by Vergil's measure with that understanding, it shouldn't seem so unusual or strange that Vergil would make certain he didn't slam into the cobblestone while trying to make his way to the train station or become buried beneath a hefty drift of snow before he could reach the safety of inside his cabin.
After their fights, Vergil has always seen to Mizu's recovery in some form or fashion. He's carried Mizu after beating him into unconsciousness, and stayed until he opened his eyes again. Vergil has always lingered long enough to see to it that Mizu tends to his injuries before leaving. And Vergil's already provided his explanation regarding that matter. He did so the very first time when Mizu balked at Vergil's insistence to make certain he tended to his wounds. Why should this time be any different than those that preceded them? Vergil's brow furrows a little further as he cannot find the difference.
"When have I ever abandoned you to bleed out after a fight?" he asks after a moment of silence.
As they make a proper approach to the apartment building, Vergil strays from the main thoroughfare. While he's been fortunate enough to have neighbors who tend to mind their own business, he's not particularly keen with the notion of carrying a bloodied human in his arms through the front door and chance running into someone on the way up. There will be needless questions and fussing that both Vergil and Mizu will find irritating if that should happen. Better to take the alleys between buildings sooner rather than later and aim for his balcony instead. He only lives on the second floor, and even with Mizu in his arms, he should be able to get enough height with a second jump off the side of the building itself.
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His question makes her blink, and Mizu turns her face up toward Vergil. While she would not have held anything against Vergil for leaving her to tend her own wounds, he's never been that way. He was the first guest, so to speak, she had when he waited in her main room while she tended to her injuries. Part of that vow not to kill each other, not during the fight nor afterward. Her mind is foggy enough it takes a couple moments to connect his question to her statement that he doesn't make sense. That comment wasn't for him. It wasn't aboutβ
"Not that," Mizu says quietly. Held as she is, there isn't much a way to gesture. Though carrying her is unnecessary. She maintains that, and as he didn't permit her to prove she could walk, neither of them can say they are right with complete and utter certainty. Not that that will stop either of them from being certain.
"Earlier," Mizu clarifies, "with the explosive. I've done that before. A body is enough of a shield I lived, but you would have had an easier time beating me." It doesn't make sense. Even without pulling her toward the explosive and ensuring she likely died from it, Vergil could have taken advantage. He could have simply done nothing about her and let what happened happened. He didn't. He took multiple unnecessary actions to protect her, to minimize the harm she took. It did nothing to her.
Mizu wants to look away, but she refuses to be the coward. She watches Vergil as best she can from how she's held.
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Why?
He can feel Mizu's gaze on him, watching him closely. Vergil doesn't hold doubts that his response isn't bringing about any satisfaction, and Mizu likely knows the word is ultimately meaningless in the ways in which it lacks any sort of truth or acknowledgment. He doesn't feel guilt or shame for offering something unsatisfactory, however. Another's satisfaction hardly matters to him and Mizu is no exception. So, it's not that motivating him to eventually continue in his response.
"Regardless of whatever abilities the fox spirit grants you, that explosive was reckless and stupid." Vergil doesn't condescend by talking to Mizu as though he were scolding a child. It's a statement of fact. It was reckless. It was stupid. He's certain deep down even Mizu is capable of recognizing that given that he already assumed the consequence could mean a quicker end to their sparring. "Simply because you decided to be a fool doesn't mean that I need to abide by it."
It's a fuller answer than his initial response, but it's still not the full of it because there is no unmaking the truth that it wasn't to Vergil's advantage in the slightest. It was foolish for Vergil to not to let Mizu reap the consequences of his choices. Had Vergil lost consciousness after the blast, the shrapnel from the grenade itself would have hindered his healing. Mizu also could have easily taken advantage of Vergil being unarmed and on his knees rather than waiting for him to regroup. It's not as though the other swordsman was so above fighting dirty, after all. So, in that decision to protect Mizu, it could have just as easily been over and done for Vergil. He would have been forced to yield one way or another had things gone a little differently.
So, it's true that Vergil has the ability to decide if he's going to let Mizu taste the consequences of foolish decisions. But that still doesn't provide a reason as to why his instinct wasn't to let Mizu be his own undoing. Especially when Vergil privately knows that being the protector of another... Well, that was a drive and instinct he gave up a long time ago. It's only ever been about his pursuit of power for decades, and thus, only ever ensuring his own survival. What became of others mattered little. The lives lost and broken because of him were negligible.
Then again, maybe that wasn't the conflict. Maybe Vergil didn't see it as his survival or even his defeat were on the line in that moment, and it really did boil down to refusing to let Mizu's self-destructive tendencies determine the outcome. Perhaps it was that selfish part of him that wants what he feels entitled to through his own power and merit that drove him to do it. Perhaps it is a fuller answer than it seems, and there's nothing more to it.
Vergil looks down at Mizu though, and he feels like a child clumsily trying to bluff his way through some predicament to an adult that already knows the truth, but waits to see when he will say it. Vergil can't intuit Mizu's mind, but his words feel so paper thin without Mizu having to say or do anything. He quickly averts his gaze with a mild heat rising to his face and ears, and he feels all at once frustrated. Granted, the frustration is without a specific target as this also appears to happen quite frequently after they spar. Something...lifts afterward. A heaviness that Vergil is so accustomed to bearing that it's only in its absence that he notices it. And in its absence, he seems to part with things. A little at a time and usually without his notice. But something about this makes him cling tighter to it, more unwilling to part with it. Not that he could exactly articulate why that is.
"I was not thinking of the outcome of the fight." It's the most he's willing or able to say on the matter. Vergil comes to a stop at the base of the apartment building and looks up at his balcony. He has a firm hold on Mizu that he's not in any danger of being dropped on the way up, but it's likely there will be a bit of jostling. "Hold onto me."
He waits until he feels Mizu take whatever amount of hold he can muster to minimize how much he's shifted around before leaping into the air. He scales a good portion of the way up before his feet hit the side of the building. Bouncing off the wall, he directs the momentum toward his balcony. His feet find the edge and without removing his arm as a support for Mizu's back, his hand finds the railing. He raises Mizu's knees to grab the railing with his other hand and nods for him to slide himself over the railing and onto the balcony on his own. Once Mizu is clear, Vergil pulls himself the rest of the way over the railing as well.
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The explosive was reckless, but what was the alternative? Losing more certainly? Surely Vergil can understand how that will not satisfy Mizu, not when she fights like she does, like each fight matters, the difference between achieving her revenge and not. Vergil sees a far broader array of her fighting, fiercer and more determined, than anyone else. Even should any of the hand to hand instructors be able to survive that mode of fighting, it's not what she's looking for from them. She's improving technique, not reaching her fathers. Against Vergil, Mizu improves her technique and adapts her strategies. She also takes it far more seriously and fights more underhanded. As was his wish. That means the reckless along with the best technique Mizu has. It's part and parcel.
The fact Vergil can transform into a demonic form whose skin her sword cannot even cut demonstrates one of the ways he holds back during fights. The way he made the fight thoroughly one-sided the first time they sparred again after the disastrous conversation in his apartment demonstrates it. Infuriating as it is that Vergil holds back, it's far more infuriating that he needs to. Mizu will beat him, no matter what it takes, even explosives, so that he cannot hold back as much as he does now. In that regard, today was a victory. It's the first time she's witnessed him, not only his double, take that form. That pleases Mizu in a way she does not put into words. That move makes sense. Pushing her away, shielding her with his double, that does not serve him well in the fight.
It makes no sense.
Though Mizu already watches Vergil's face, she's stunned and stares when he says it wasn't about the fight. About the outcome. She would forget where they are, save that he speaks again in a way that promises pain. Pain doesn't matter. Mizu fists Vergil's vest with one hand and reaches across herself painfully to get a second anchor point. The neckline of his shirt.
Not used to bothering to hide pain outside of a fight, when Mizu frequently forgets or ignores it, Mizu flinches as the leaps jostle her. It's better than walking through the public areas of Satori Hills. No complaint there. It takes a moment to gather herself. Vergil is letting her climb onto his balcony. That's right. She can do that. Mizu slides away from Vergil and lets go of him to steady on the railing itself. Only for a moment. Rather than focus on what Vergil's words could mean, Mizu takes small forcefully steady steps toward the door into Vergil's apartment. It's not far, and with her foot healed, she manages it.
Woozy from the loss of blood, Mizu pauses, leaning against that door. What was Vergil thinking about? Mizu blinks and stares at him, as though that will provide any further insight. She may as well be swordfather, for how much Mizu can tell from his face. With a small shake of her head to clear her thoughts and focus, she turns back to the door and slides it open. It's only far enough she can slip inside and continue, tracking a little blood, toward Vergil's bed. He lacks much furniture, and Mizu refuses to collapse on the floor.
"I'll be... fine," Mizu says with determination. Whether she has the healing ability or not, she'll live. She'll recover. She'll be fine. Nothing she regrets about their fight, not when she knows that explosive won't kill him. Not there. She was right.
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"I know," he says at Mizu's reassurance. There hasn't been a fight between them yet that Mizu hasn't recovered from in the end.
The most he does for Mizu is pull back the covers on the bed, but he otherwise lets the other swordsman handle getting himself settled. Mizu has a bed to collapse upon should he find himself struggling, anyway, so Vergil will allow Mizu's pride to dictate how much support he has or not. As Mizu settles, Vergil gets a large bowl with some soapy water and a pair of towels from the kitchen. He sets them down on the nightstand near the bed for Mizu to clean off some of the blood and grime. As little as Vergil is concerned with the state of his bedding by the time Mizu is done resting, he can at least recognize that it would probably feel a little better for Mizu to clean up. Even if it's just the rest of what the snow could not on his face. To that end, Vergil opens his wardrobe and pulls from it a shirt and pair of sweatpants. As he does, he says, "I'll make you some food after I've showered."
Rather than taking the clothing with him, however, Vergil lightly tosses them at the foot of the bed in a silent offer for Mizu to make use of them if he so desires. They'll be a little large on his smaller frame, of course, but they're at least clean and it won't require spending any Lore to summon a fresh pair of clothes. But if all Mizu wants to do is simply lie down and sleep, far be it from Vergil to take any offense to not cleaning himself up or taking the clothes.
He pulls out another change of clothes for himself, and slides his wardrobe shut. Out of habit, he begins to reach beneath his shirt and vest to pull his out the amulet around his neck. Vergil pauses and hesitates, however, with a glance at Mizu, his grip subtly tightening around the amulet itself. After a few quiet seconds of debate, he releases the amulet and removes it, placing it on its usual spot on the nightstand. It's been out in the open before and Mizu let it be. He didn't seem to pay it any mind whatsoever the last time he was in Vergil's apartment, in fact. So, Vergil likely has very little to worry about leaving it there with Mizu.
As he heads towards his bathroom, Vergil begins unbuttoning his vest, scoffing quietly to himself at the tears in the fabric.
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The cuts in her clothing allow her to clean the wounds without revealing more skin than necessary. Without revealing anything she doesn't want to. Mizu uses her uninjured hand to clean around the wounds so nothing goes worse before she can heal them. Her ability isn't an excuse for reckless wound care. She flinches as she goes, pressing against sensitive wounds. That's how injuries go. Even Vergil isn't entirely stoic. Mizu saw that today. It's not embarrassing to be wounded or to take care of herself. Even as her head gets woozy, she carries on, wiping her face along the way.
The clothes are the greater surprise. The entire time it takes Vergil to leave, to place the amulet on the nightstand and go, Mizu focuses her attention on the simple nightclothes offered to her. She remembers how similar clothes fit on Vergil when she stopped by. They'll fit differently on her, and Mizu puzzles whether that would reveal more of her shape than she would like. To add to the matter, Mizu doesn't know how long it will take Vergil to shower, less than a bath, and she remains injured. That very well may be something he's chosen to be polite, so he can make food more quickly, but Mizu doubts she has time to change into these clothes and change back, should they be unacceptable. Fortunately, Vergil knows Mizu to be plenty rude when she chooses, so there's no social obligation to accept the offer.
There is no time for indecision. Mizu scans the room, as though Vergil may have overlooked some unexpected squatter in this room, and moves quickly despite the pain. She unties her obi, removes her haori, and forces her injured arm through one sleeve, grateful the shirt is large on her. She finishes pulling it on and considers it. Mizu scowls at the way the light breeze coming through the door emphasizes her curves. Her haori is dirty and sliced through, but Mizu pulls it on over the shirt to add some weight. The shirt is clearly visible where the largest slash across her torso goes.
The trousers... Mizu turns toward the closed bathroom door. The shower is still running. Fine. Her legs themselves aren't injured. It only hurts to lift herself up and twist her body around in the act of dressing and undressing. Unless she heals herself here, Mizu doubts she'll want to change back before leaving. In total, she's dressed without being seen. The trousers do not call attention to her hips, and her haori guards her silhouette.
The excitement and terror of the situation wear off and leave Mizu drained and exhausted and wavering even as she sits. Mizu leaves her clothes where they lay and lies down, settling on her back as the least awful option, and passes out without thinking about it.
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But he still lingers on it and the little cuts adorning his features, allowing the distant thought that he hasn't looked this rough since he was a child after a fight with Dante to be more present instead. They'd both be forced to sit as their mother cleaned each cut and scrape. Vergil sat still and quietly even if occasionally his eyes were pricked with tears when it would sting or burn. Dante squirmed and caterwauled nearly the entire time. Vergil would hold his hand after a while to help simmer him down with a prepared excuse that he just wanted to make things easier for their mother, but really he thought it was what a big brother was supposed to do for his little brother. Dante never asked him why he did it though, and neither did their mother. She would only scold them a little, provide them with a chore, and let them be rather than lecture.
Vergil sighs at his reflection for a moment before crouching down to undo the straps on his boots. When he straightens, he turns on the shower to start warming up the water before he strips out of his clothes. The shirt and vest don't go into the laundry basket, instead finding themselves tossed away into the trash bin. He hesitates a moment before stepping into the shower, listening for any sound that might alert him to Mizu struggling in some form or fashion. But there isn't a sound coming from outside the bathroom door, and he can only assume Mizu is managing or otherwise asleep. Vergil will keep an ear out still, but he feels confident that Mizu is fine.
Cliche as it is, the shower really is a perfect place to clear his mind when distraction isn't going to prove effective. He lets it go blank as he watches the rivulets of water coming off him turn from red to pink for just a little while before he begins to properly scrub himself clean again. But the question eventually emerges once again as he touches his once grievously injured side. He protected Mizu because he wasn't thinking about the outcome of the fight, but...
Why had he not concerned himself more with that?
It's not as though he cares that deeply about Mizu's opinion of him, but even if he had, Mizu wouldn't have been angry for whatever Vergil would have done as his opponent. He would have understood, and he would have accepted that he made a significant mistake in thinking greater firepower than what he had produced thus far would best Vergil. That would have been it. And for as reckless as it was, Mizu has survived something similar by his own account. Vergil would have still absorbed the majority of the blast even if he just allowed Mizu to escape as far as he could carry himself before it detonated. But there was just the singular thought to get Mizu away as far as possible as quickly as possible, and he enacted it without much more thought than that. But why?
He shuts off the water, grabbing a towel and drying off a little before stepping out to dry off the rest of the way. Unlike in the shower, Vergil doesn't find himself meandering and is quicker to dry off and dress himself. He opens the bathroom door quietly, padding his way over to the bed to check on Mizu.
He doesn't dare sit on the bed, thinking that the shift in weight could wake Mizu either naturally or through agitating his wounds. So, he kneels down beside him. Looking at Mizu, Vergil considers the question a bit further.
For the entirety of his life, Vergil has never been good at protecting anything. That day, he wasn't able to protect his mother or Dante. He abandoned Nero and his mother. He arguably couldn't even really protect himself in the end. But even with all those failures, he wanted to protect Mizu.
He glances away at the amulet, quietly picking it up from where he left it and putting it back on. Once it's safely tucked away beneath his shirt, he looks to Mizu again. Tentatively, he reaches out with a hand, hesitating just before making contact just as he had at the bonfire. But Vergil summons up the courage, and feels Mizu's forehead to check for a fever. His hand lingers there for just a moment before slowly, he gently follows the line of Mizu's cheek and takes back his hand altogether.
...He wants to protect Mizu.
It's a stupid, foolish, reckless, and terrible feeling. It's completely unnecessary and pointless, and Vergil wants nothing more than to tear it out of himself, to shred it for as long as it takes to make it infinitesimal pieces. But it's there, having lodged itself there at some point or another. The consequence of his humanity, he supposes, mind drifting to the amulet beneath his shirt.
Vergil stands silently, collecting the bowl and used towels. He disposes of the water, cleans the bowl, and puts the dirtied towels in with the rest of the laundry before replacing the bowl with a glass of water on the nightstand. Vergil pulls the sheet over Mizu, but leaves the blanket off him given his choice to keep his haori on. From there, it's cleaning the little trail of blood left behind by Mizu when he came inside and making the promised food.
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She comes to in an unfamiliar bed and reaches for her sword. Still in its scabbard, Mizu takes in her surroundings, memory muddling to the fore slower than the pain. How long was she out? Not long if those sounds are Vergil in the kitchen. She hopes. Mizu sits immediately, not good at staying lying down when she's uncertain about anything in her environment. Though it's safe to pass out around Vergil, Mizu still hates losing consciousness when it's not of her own choosing. The pain pierces through the rest, and Mizu accepts that, normal as it is.
The water is cool and refreshing, greatly appreciated. Mizu looks across the room at Vergil. There isn't anything else to do but sit and wait and slowly recover. Things she can all do here in safety. Only when the thought that Mizu should ask Vergil for a needle and thread does she remember her healing ability, foreign and unfamiliar as it is. If Mizu can heal herself, she doesn't need to sew the wounds shut. A convenient fact given the act only causes more pain. She could ask him for drugs to lessen the pain (not opium, more the pills that come in bottles). However, it is best Mizu masters this ability without any aid, so she does not.
Once again, Mizu arranges herself for meditation, staying in the bed for the process. Closing her eyes, Mizu repeats phrases softly to herself under her breath. For all that her anger burns cold within her, she can find peace and calm, at least for a few moments at a time. Her mind stays on swordfather and all he taught her. When she loses her focus and cannot find it again, Mizu considers her injuries. She slides one hand under the shirt to feel her wound. The skin has sewn shut, but the area is tender to the touch. Her arm is similarly much better but not fully healed. Most annoyingly, her head still feels woozy and light. Nearly drunk, Mizu wants to say, except that she does not drink and could not say with certainty that's how it would feel.
"I'm awake," Mizu declares, in the unlikely case Vergil hasn't noticed. Even under normal circumstances, whenever two people share a room, it's hard not to notice the other person. With her injuries, Mizu has no doubts Vergil's paid attention. "Thank you for your generosity."
The bed. The clothes. The food soon to follow. That isn't part of the obligations they've made to each other with their sparring. Mizu could have laid on the floor well enough. She's slept in less comfortable places.
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Vergil's not much of a chef. The times he has had to fend for himself historically haven't exactly had much emphasis on the culinary arts so much as merely sustaining himself for the next day. But he's acquired a little skill since being in Folkmore, and he finds he doesn't mind it all too much preparing his own meals. There's something meditative about it, in any case. So, he's managed to put together a standard cheeseburgerβa seasoned patty with cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickles, ketchup, mustard, and mayo all on a lightly toasted bunβwith a side of some sweet potato fries. It seems a safe enough choice in meal given that he doesn't know Mizu's preferences and it'd be more than a little difficult for Vergil to mess it up.
He grunts his acknowledgement when Mizu announces he's awake, focusing on finishing with his plating and turning the stovetop off. He glances in Mizu's direction at the words of thanks, but he doesn't truthfully know what to do with them. He doesn't view what he's doing as anything particularly special, and he would like to think Mizu would extend a similar courtesy if their roles were reversed. In the end, he says nothing to it and brings the food and a small pitcher of water over on a tray. Normally, he'd insist for Mizu to sit at the table to eat to avoid crumbs in his bed, but the sheets will need washing anyway. So, Mizu might as well eat comfortably in bed. He sits down nearby at the foot of the bed and places the tray between them.
"It's not much," he says, loosely folding his arms, "but you should try to eat as much as you can." He pauses before adding, "How do you feel? You look like you're starting to get some color back."
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She accepts the food and starts eating the vegetable on the side. That is more familiar to her, though she's been introduced to sandwiches before. In Japan, there would be chopsticks for the vegetable and... she's not sure how they would deal with sandwiches. The fact there is meat and cheese together in the sandwich is very much a white man concept. It's not what she expected from Vergil, but perhaps he learned about it here. The food is varied in Folkmore, and Mizu eats what is presented at various social gatherings. At home, her food is what she's used to.
Since there are no utensils, she picks up the sandwich with her hands and takes a bite. The meat is rich and fatty. The other parts of the sandwich introduce crunchy texture, sour flavors, and creaminess. It's a lot all in one bite. That seems appropriate to Vergil that he would like something like this. She needs the water and wipes her hands off on a napkin before reaching for the glass. She sips. Her appetite is both ravenous and nonexistent. She knows she needs food, but the process pulls at tender skin and sore muscles coming back together.
Mizu wishes Vergil would eat his sandwich. Being watched makes her feel more the invalid than she is and the accompanying desire to prove it. That makes her think of Taigenβthat insistence she could beat him anywhere at any time with any weapon. She did beat him with a chopstick. Though Vergil, of course, would immediately learn how to fight with a chopstick upon picking it up. Perhaps not when it's an improvised weapon? Mizu wonders about that.
"It is more difficult to focus and use the healing ability at the moment, but I closed the wounds themselves," Mizu says. "I'm not sure if it replenishes blood. That will be something to think about."
She shrugs. She doesn't need to be hale and whole an hour after they finish sparring. It's enough that it should take a matter of days, perhaps. "I've had much worse," she assures Vergil. She barely passed out long enough for him to finish showering and make food. That's nothing.
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As he chews his bite, he listens to Mizu's answer to his question. Based upon it, Vergil privately concludes that this must be a limit to the healing ability. While Vergil's own healing happens instantaneously and without thoughtβmore a natural consequence of his biology than anything elseβMizu's requires a little more cognitive effort. He has to focus his attention in some manner to be successful with it. Therefore, if he's unconscious or in too much pain or in some altered state of mind, it won't be as successful. It's something for Vergil to take note in how he chooses to approach their future fights. He might not need to hold back quite as much as he did before, but to Vergil's mind, it's a negligible difference. The outcomes would be the same as they would be without the healing factor in that circumstance.
Vergil swallows and shifts to holding the burger in one hand as he picks up a fry from his plate. He tips his head a little and his brow furrows slightly at Mizu's reassurance.
He keeps doing that. Trying to reassure Vergil.
The half-devil doesn't know what to make of it because it's not as though he's worried per se. Mizu is upright, talking, eating, and he doesn't look quite so close to passing out with every movement. Vergil is only doing the sensible thing and asking for his own perspective though, and the offer of a place to rest and recuperate is the decent thing to do. Nothing that should merit any sort of concern for Vergil's thoughts or feelings.
"Unsurprising," he says before popping the fry in his mouth. He pinches at the napkin with his fingers to clean them before pushing a few still-drying strands that fell with the movement of his hand back to where they belong. Once the fry is gone, he says, "I think if we had met when I was younger, I wouldn't have been so quick to assume humans were all so weak."
There's a small beat before he adds, "But I may have also assumed all of them were quite stupid."
He's teasing. Not that just anyone would necessarily pick up on the barest of lilts in his tone to indicate as much. To some, it'd probably sound like a genuine insult and more of a display of Vergil's sense of superiority. But Vergil trusts Mizu can tell the difference. Besides, he already expressed that he thought what Mizu did today was reckless and stupid, and Vergil was never one to belabor a point.
He takes another bite of his cheeseburger.
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Including the food. Mizu eats the strange sandwich. That's not hard after the last half year. It's filling, and she's famished the more she eats. Though she eats tidily, it seems gone in a few bites. Mizu glances down at her hands when Vergil compliments her on not being weakβthat is what he's saying, basing his opinion on humans on her. Something that would make so many people in Japan laugh. They don't all consider her human. Many of them consider her weak. Mizu knows better.
A smile grows, amused, when he continues. "People are quite stupid," Mizu says, "Every one that I've met. If someone doesn't appear stupid, wait and they will reveal themselves."
The vegetable takes a little longer, if only because each slice is eaten individually with the hands. It's over fairly quickly however. She could probably eat a second one, but that might not be the best idea. By the time she gets home, however, she'll have room to eat more. She watches Vergil, including him in that group. People. He might not be human, but he's a person. The urge to grapple him, to prove she can pin him, rises as it often does with people. Only Mizu knows better than to think she'd win at that right now, even with the surprise. Give her time, Vergil. Give her time.
"I've always been like this," Mizu says, "I simply wouldn't be as experienced if you met me when I was younger." She believes that, those early lessons against blood soaked Chiaki, the assassin who used her broken blade for years, showed how much more she had to learn. Once skilled, it took experience to get where she is now. Her skill with the naginata, Mizu doesn't like to dwell on it, but Mikio taught her well. She can give him that much credit. Mizu took it further, a way to have a sword and a naginata in one weapon. Superior to only one or the other.
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"I would have likely found you vexing and wouldn't have had the patience for your foolishness," he says. He's proud still, but he was prideful then. A son of Sparda who was ready to take what was his no matter the cost would have been insulted at a human with no power and little experience or skill to show for it trying to challenge him. Not that Vergil imagines it would have dissuaded Mizu at all. In his experience, the irritating ones have a tendency to refuse to give up. He would have just kept trying again and again and again just as he does now. The difference is, however, Vergil has an understanding of why Mizu refuses to give up on the notion that he might best Vergil someday, and why he's willing to continue throwing himself into a fight he may never actually win again and again and again. That understanding subsequently lends itself to an appreciation and a degree of respect. Things, that in his younger years, Vergil never would have held towards Mizu. The frustration and irritation would have, at most, lead to a sort of resentful curiosity.
He hums in light amusement at how much they probably wouldn't have gotten along, the barest flicker of a smile as he takes one last fry from his own plate. He stacks his plate atop Mizu's now empty plate, and says, "You may have the rest."
He's not actually so full from the cheeseburger that he can't finish his few remaining fries. But seeing as how Mizu didn't complain about the meal, Vergil has no trouble parting with the rest for Mizu to get a little more food in his stomach. After he pops his final fry into his mouth, Vergil wipes his hands clean with his crumpled napkin and places it on the tray where his plate used to be.
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not like letting Akemi get taken back to her father. It felt terrible but was likely the best option for her. She didn't know about Fowler's plot at that point, and even with it, Akemi was getting out of there. She stood by her deal with Ringo. Akemi's fine. The girl made her choices. It's up to her, not Mizu. Mizu is only responsible for herself. Ringo shouldn't have expected anything better. She was clear with him up front. A demon's path. Mizu doesn't want to dwell on those thoughts. It isn't the sort of foolishness Vergil means. Better to think of how entertained and exasperated he might be when the brothel was attacked and Mizu got stuck under the door. She got out, no suffocation for her. In a way the door protected her in ways she'd otherwise be vulnerable on the ground beneath so many opponents.
"Then it's a good thing we were not brought here when we were younger," Mizu suggests. At least she has one, almost two, kills down on her list. The ones she could manage on her own. She didn't need the fox spirit's help before now, so there's no reason she'd come earlier. They butt heads from time to time now, but that's with some understanding and respect for each other. Mizu's seen how far beyond human Vergil is, and he doesn't have the sword he's been looking for since the day they arrived. While it may be an emotional attachment to the sword, Mizu has no doubts it's as remarkable a sword as Mirage Edge. She needs to beat him before that happens. Part of the impetus to get this healing ability.
She must look really hungry since Vergil gives her the remainder of his vegetables. A small nod. Mizu continues to eat them one at a time. She's always hungry after they spar. She goes all out, not only in so far as the injuries she will take over the course of the fight but how little energy she works to conserve. It does no good if she's dead, so a true fight, one that matters, gets that commitment. This time, Mizu is slower. There won't be more after this for a little while, and her body needs to be ready for that. Not that Mizu ever starves in Folkmore. She keeps enough Lore on her spoon to summon emergency supplies, including food.
"This was good," Mizu says, "Weird, but good." She manages not to thank him again for it. Etiquette is one of the easiest things to fall back on when she needs a tool, but Mizu isn't otherwise an especially polite person. Vergil doesn't operate on the same rules Japan does, so it isn't as useful. It simply leaves her with little to go on when she doesn't want a repeat of the disastrous ending of the last conversation they had in his room.
She motions across the room toward the books since he mentioned reading at the bonfire. "Are those yours or from the library?" Mizu asks. In her day, only the very rich had scrolls. Most people relied on stories shared aloud. Most people didn't even know how to read.
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"Mine," he says. Not that he has anything against the library. He's spent plenty of time with books there, too. But there's something incredible about having a tangible book that's all his own again after so long being without. Not that Vergil doesn't recognize on some level how foolish that is. They are just printed words on a page. They're not exactly some prized treasure decked in jewels and other precious metals. But they are his. And he finds a richness in them that he can't really find an equivalent anywhere else. He glances back at Mizu as he continues, his eyes drifting over toward his balcony instead and the world beyond, "I read a lot as a child. Poetry, mostly."
Vergil lightly folds his arms once more, crossing his ankles as well. It's not out of defensiveness, however. He just can't exactly think of the last time anyone ever took an interest in his reading habits, let alone that he spoke of it with someone else. Dante never understood it, always wanting to be rough and tumble, and play. He found reading tedious, and poetry even more so. Vergil begged his parents constantly to read to him before he was able to read for himself. In all honesty, he doesn't know if his father would have been as interested talking about it with him. He was gone too soon after Vergil began learning to read for himself. But his mother was always willing to sit with Vergil while he read. She never seemed disinterested or annoyed whenever he decided to tell her about the books he was reading. And she never was put out when even well after he could read, Vergil would still ask her to read to him.
He lifts his chin, opting not to dwell on it, and looks at Mizu.
"I spent most of my adolescence reading on clues about my father's power. Most of it was the same story, just little variations." Clearly not something Vergil would have read for the very pleasure of it, that's for certain. "After that... Reading wasn't really something I was able to do."
It's a skirting around the full truth of everything that came after he tried to seize the power of Sparda for himself. But Mizu didn't ask for all of that, and Vergil would much rather not talk about it. So, he doesn't. Instead, he says with a casual wave of his hand, "But I have more time here. So, I thought I might as well fill it with books and poetry."
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She listens to Vergil, however, because he loved books from childhood. He comes from a childhood with books in it. Given how powerful his father was, that shouldn't be surprising. It's the rich and powerful men (and demons) who have libraries. It matches the pride and the search for power, in so much as that more frequently comes from men in those parts of society. Taiden has ambition, and he has pride. It's the pride of someone scraping to prove himself and drag himself up, rather than one who was born to be there. That might have made Mizu dislike Vergil, except they discussed it in the context of their mistakes costing so many people their lives. It felt different, even if it was something they had to share to ever leave that library. Now, it seems, the two closest people to her in Folkmore come from that wealthy kind of background. Vergil. And Rin.
Vergil's adolescence is particularly relatable to her current activities. It speaks to where they are in their journeys. Vergil no longer is trying to amass as much power as possible, but Mizu still walks the path of revenge. At best, she'll soon be half done. The second half of such journeys are likely harder than the first. They only ever get harder. A small sigh. She has enough difficulty learning about London. She can't imagine trying to learn the truth behind his father's power, something that would be a much more guarded secret. No jealousy there, strange as it is to learn about a place around the world that she's never been to and for which so much information is about the future.
"It's what you like, so it makes sense you would," Mizu says. She's never cared about poetry herself, but she doesn't say so. No need to insult what Vergil likes. It's not like Mizu's been exposed to much poetry in her life. She leans back against the wall, more interested in Vergil than the books themselves. "What do you like about them?"
Better to let him talk on the matter. Mizu can listen. Not everyone is as single minded as she is, and Vergil had more exposure to various things before his life went to shit than she did living in a shack in the woods. Her stories were always of the bad men who would find her if she went outside.
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"When I was a child, I liked it because it was something I didn't have to share with Dante. We're twins, so we were expected to share most everything together."
Albeit, Vergil always felt more pressure around sharing with Dante than the other way around. Dante was always so happy to let Vergil have anything, and he could never particularly understand why Vergil rarely reciprocated. Even when it was things he wasn't all that interested in like Vergil's books, he couldn't understand why Vergil didn't want to let him have them and why he'd get so angry with Dante every time he'd hide one of Vergil's books on him.
"I used to mark the things I didn't want Dante touching with a 'V'," he says, drawing the letter in the air with a finger. "Although in hindsight it was a foolish choice. It just told him which things of mine he needed to try and steal from me in order to get my attention if I kept refusing to play with him.
"Anyway, he was never much for reading. He thought it was boring, and couldn't understand why I'd rather read than play and train with him. So, the books and poems were something for me."
But it certainly grew to be more than just avoiding his brother's insistence to fight with their wooden swords, or establishing something for himself as time went on. And it wasn't even about that sense of escapism either. It was actually more about seeking a connection more than anything. Vergil found an emotional world in his reading. One that he's known so very little about in his daily life as even as a child, he found himself struggling to articulate all that he felt and saw. It's why he fell in love with Blake's poems, works that dealt with both the beautiful and uglier sides of nature and life. Vergil briefly mulls over how much of that to share, how much of it is even relevant or something Mizu would even care to know even if he did ask the question what it was about books and poetry that drew Vergil's interest before he answers.
He looks back over towards the balcony.
"I have never been...particularly skilled when it comes to connecting with others. Even as a child, I would watch Dante befriend almost anyone and I could never understand it. How he drew people in and spoke to them so easily as if they had been friends the entirety of their lives.
"But I found that connection for myself in poetry. Blake, in particular."
And then his mother was killed, and he presumed his brother was dead, and that the same fate was about to befall him as well. And the devil awakened within him, and he survived, but he swore off such connection, such emotion. It was weakness to be so human, so connected that he would grieve anyone ever again, that he would ever allow himself to be reliant upon those connections for his own protection and well-being. The colder he was able to be, the stronger he was, he thought. And so he spent years on his own, refusing help, refusing to hide who and what he was. He fought viciously for his survival, and he remained so single-minded in his pursuit of power that he let all else fall by the wayside.
"I wanted more of it, so I read as much as I could."
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Siblings or other young people not trying to beat the shit out of her is... a foreign experience for Mizu. It sounds like the kind of thing that must be normal to other people. It's like peering through the slats in her shack as a child and seeing the village children play together. Something observed not experienced, not fully understood. Dante reminds her a little of Ringo and his insistence in following Mizu, joining her, and coming along on her quest. Not the same, mind, but it's the closest she has to someone bothering her when she repeatedly tells them to go away.
She finishes eating the rest of Vergil's vegetables while he talks. The way he looks away, looks distant, when he continues leads her to still. Mizu wipes her hand on the napkin and sits quietly. While it makes so little sense to her that connection could be found in words on a page, Mizu understands the difficulty connecting with others. How much she tried when she still gave a damn about it. It takes effort not to mull over certain events, certain mistakes in her past. She won't think about them. Better to rip open her side again than revisit foolish moments.
Mizu gazes at Vergil's books and tries to see what Vergil said he found there. Her reading has been factual accounts. What stories she's read, she's focused on the details about London, not on connection and people. That superfluous information. None of it has been poetry. Mizu notes the name Blake and looks back at Vergil. The point is what it did for him. There's no expectation it would ever do the same for her. She found herself a different way.
That way doesn't involve words. Mizu's glad to listen to Vergil speak about his interest in books, in poetry, but she doesn't know what to say. Conversation isn't a skill she's developed or needed. "I didn't know you could find that in books," Mizu says, "I didn't grow up with them."
Mizu's still not sure she could find that in books, but she hasn't tried. Connection isn't what she seeks. Connection is for other people. Even, it seems, Vergil. He's in a different place than she is, no longer simply seeking power (though his continued work to regain his sword relates to it). He has room for more in his life. Poetry again. Connection. Vergil and Rin, in their own ways, have been in similar places to Mizu, but they both are in different ones now. Something past, pushed beyond, the goal itself. It raises the question: what happens after? If Mizu kills Fowler and Routley and Skeffington. She doesn't know. If she survives the process, she can figure something out then, though she will be far from anyone she's met in Folkmore at that point. These connections, what little they are, will be gone. That shouldn't matter. It doesn't. The ache is simply her wounds not fully healed.
"Then again, all I did in my youth was make knives and swords and practice my swordmanship."
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He sets the pitcher of water on the nightstand for Mizu to be able to still refill his glass as needed before gathering up the tray.
"Even if you did grow up with books, you didn't have a need for them," he says as he stands up. And Mizu isn't the sort of person to waste his time on something he doesn't place value in. "You had your smithing instead."
Vergil steps away to the kitchen, tossing out the used napkins.
"Have you considered smithing more while you're here?" Vergil asks as he sets the plates in the sink and opens the cabinet from where he pulled the tray out. Vergil feels like he already knows the answer. Mizu's never been unclear about his focus on his task of revenge. Swordsmithing doesn't exactly align so neatly with that beyond the ability to repair his own weapons as he continues to train both sharpening and maintaining his skills. But he would like to be surprised by hearing otherwise. So, he asks regardless of the certainty that hasn't likely crossed Mizu's mind all that seriously.
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Mizu sips more of the water and watches Vergil go about cleaning up. She will probably leave soon. She can walk, and Vergil doesn't need her imposing on him, his space, or his time. He's been more than fair. Still, she wouldn't have minded if he stayed sitting there longer.
"I am making a sword for someone," Mizu says, "They were searching for someone who can make katana, rather than simply summon one, and he's going to pay me in Lore." Mizu smiles, almost a smirk, at Vergil. She knows Vergil works hard to build up Lore, to have enough Lore to regain Yamato. Here she is getting paid half the cost of her healing ability to make a single sword.
"It's ensuring I make sure the forge is set up just right. I'm approaching the work as Master Eiji taught me, though I admit he's never had to make a sword for someone from another world. I'm curious to see how well I match it to him." His words about her sword, about it being too pure, too brittle, ring in her mind. Sephiroth's sword will not break on him. She'll see to it.
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"And how exactly do you match a blade to a person?" he asks as he moves the pan, cutting board, and knife to the sink.
Vergil isn't ignorant to the idea of a blade matching its wielder. Yamato was his father's blade once and Vergil's own son has wielded it as well. But he would be lying if he attempted to deny he feels a stronger claim to it than anyone else in his bloodline, including his father. By now, Vergil has full command of the Yamato's power. When he wields it, the sword is an extension of him and his will. Vergil moves with grace and speed, the blade itself enhancing his own natural abilities further. And when he transforms, the blade and its scabbard become physical parts of him. There is, in some ways, no separating Vergil from Yamato or Yamato from Vergil. Not for long. But Yamato isn't an ordinary blade made purely of steel by the hands of everyday men, and it wasn't forged with Vergil in mind. When Sparda divided his power into the blade, it was so that the gate between worlds could be properly sealed, not with the intention of one passing the blade down to a son. Vergil's connection with the blade came far later and unintentionally.
So, the question and its associated curiosity is genuine. Vergil abandons the dishes for now to return to his spot on the bed.
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The question is simple but difficult at the same time. No matter how many times Master Eiji explained it or how many swords she saw made, it's not so easy to define. It requires a deep understanding of the warrior, while a swordsmith also will not observe them live in combat. Master Eiji cannot see at all but manages to understand simply touching someone as they go through their moves, an ability Mizu could not match. He is incredible, far beyond anything else she has seen.
"In its most basic form, you need to understand how a blade will be used," Mizu explains, "You have to observe their techniques. Master Eiji refused to make a sword for anyone who would not demonstrate each and every one of his techniques, even the secret ones. Some refused, so they did not get swords." That's the simplest most basic level. A sword must be suited to the ways it will be used. However, that could lead to the same sword for every student of the same dojo, a most laughable idea.
"Those observations also reveal temperament, preferences, ticks, and other expressions of who a warrior is. Though in truth, every interaction with someone before making them a sword feeds into the understanding of them and what suits them." That's only the observations, not how it comes out in the sword.
"There are hundreds of decisions that go into making a sword, and each of them affects the outcome. Even what wood you burn to heat the metal, each piece of wood I mean, not only the kind of tree or the dryness of the wood. I don't know that I could explain each decision I make throughout the process, but attuning yourself to it and ensuring your mind is in the right state. You have to empty yourself and..."
Mizu doesn't have the words. She knows when it's right.
"You let the sword be what it should be."
A wholly unsatisfactory answer, she is sure. No one asks Master Eiji how he does it, only satisfied that he does. She learned from him, a thousand little lessons along with the larger ones. Mizu shrugs.
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His father's blades would be perhaps the closest comparison. Others are a little less comparable given that they require another demon to suffer defeat and submit to the will of its better for its continued survival. But rather than steel, they were forged of Sparda's power, and rather than to match its wielder, they were matched to a purpose given that the wielder was the same as the creator. But even those small differences make the processes seem incompatible. Sparda putting himself into his blades was not an extension of something more metaphysical like what Mizu describes. It was merely funneling raw power and manifesting it. Then again, that woman... What was her name? Vergil's brow furrows a little as he tries to recall it. Nico. Nico had been capable of forging Devil Arms. The arms that Nero used and the hat she gifted Dante had seemed appropriate to each of them. Perhaps there is some overlap that Vergil just cannot parse entirely on his own given the only Devil Arms he's possessed he either inherited or forged after defeating the devil whose power he was taking for himself.
"I'm sure you will make a blade that matches him," he says, breaking his quiet and lifting his gaze back to Mizu. "You're attentive in battle. You read my moves better each time we cross blades and apply that knowledge well. I imagine you'll understand him well enough, too, to make a blade that suits his needs."
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A small nod at the compliment. It's not praise she's used to hearing. Even when she made the sword, it was always under Master Eiji. Except for her sword. No one complimented her on her work, especially not beforehand. They thanked Master Eiji for the sword. That was that. Master Eiji gave praise and criticism as deserved. No memory stands out stronger than the broken blade, the one Mizu assumed was her fault. Her impurity. Master Eiji identified the problem cleanly with one touch of the assassin's hands. They did not match his story. Nor, in hindsight, did his treatment of Mizu learning swordplay. Chiaki is dead now, and the stories about him will fade. The sword reclaimed. For his part, Vergil is also fair with his words. He means it.
She runs a hand over the sheath of her sword and draws it into her lap. "He didn't have a sword. He doesn't want one of the ones lying around Folkmore or that could be summoned. So I let him demonstrate his techniques using my sword," Mizu says. Her sword but not one of her make. "I could see the ways it doesn't suit him."
Not that it's a perfect match for her either. She'd need to make a sword for that. She'd need to remake it, no matter that Thirteen returned it to her whole and unbroken. Mizu knows the impurity is there and cannot wield it. Will not wield it. Nor has she remade it, though it needs remaking. They spoke about it at the bonfire. She's not sure what will make her ready.
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Vergil turns his hands over in his lap and summons Mirage Edge, the flat side of the blade resting in his other palm.
"This is based on one of my father's other blades, Force Edge." A blade that Vergil only ever had the opportunity to use once before he was proven not strong enough to take hold of his father's power and suffered a crushing defeat. He tries not to taste the bitter taste the memory inspires in the back of his throat and offers it to Mizu. For as many times as Mizu has been struck by Mirage Edge, he's never had the opportunity to actually examine it.
If Mizu takes it, Mirage Edge will feel no different from any other blade. It has weight and balance of its own even if it's not made from any sort of tangible materials. Without any means of sensing magic, there's nothing that belies all that Mizu has seen it can do. Really the only thing that seems to speak to its nature at all is the fact it's the same sort of warmth that had been Vergil had been exhausting when he transformed. It's almost as though Mizu has been able to physically hold the sensation of warming his hands over a fire.
"I tried to claim it for myself once, but it was not meant to be. I only came to use this phantom version of it when Yamato was..." he says, hesitating as he tries to find the right word. There are many he could use. Lost. Nearly destroyed. Broken. Ripped away. He finds a middle ground. "...Taken."
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Fortunately, Vergil speaks of his sword, Mirage Edge. He summons it, and something thrums through Mizu's blood. Yet it's not that time. Little is more serious than a warrior speaking of his sword. Mizu listens with intent interest. Though the sword is more than steel, a fact Mizu's wounds time and again attest to, it is still a sword, a blade.
She accepts the sword and immediately notes the unnatural but familiar warmth. It raises the immediate, if foolish sounding, question: is the sword a part of Vergil? A sword and an extension of himself both. It would explain why he has it, why he had it when he arrived in Folkmore when the fox spirit takes everyone's weapons. Mizu tests its balance, finding the point upon which it will rest on a single point. Her movements are slow, respectful, though she wants to learn everything she can about it with a hunger that comes from making swords.
Her gaze returns to Vergil when he continues talking. It gets more difficult for him, and Mizu wonders at the circumstances under which Yamato was taken. Vergil is so strong a fighter it's hard to imagine almost anyone defeating him and taking his sword. There's no satisfaction in confirmation it's possible to defeat Vergil. She already knew she can. Instead it feels akin to the moment her sword broke in Fowler's castle. Not the same, she knows, but it's as close a moment for her as that could feel like.
"I haven't seen Yamato or Force Edge, but Mirage Edge is an incredible sword," Mizu says. Her head tilts slightly. A phantom version. "Did you... make it?"
Her heart beats faster, and Mizu awaits the answer even as she continues to inspect the sword. It's incredible, and she wants to know how such a sword is made.
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"In a sense, yes," he says, answering his question in brief first before providing the fuller explanation. "After my mother died, my demonic power had awakened. I knew my father was able to manifest his power as his blades, and I wanted to learn the same.
"My father loving humanity as he did is a rarity among his kind. Most demons would sooner use humans as fuel for their own power than even entertain the notion of anything else. So, for my father falling in love with a human woman, and siring two sons was exceptional." On its surface, it could seem as though Vergil were once again boasting about how extraordinary his father was, how disciplined he was to defy his very nature to not only see value in and protect humanity, but to have found someone among the humans to begin building a life with together. But Vergil is not propping his parents and their love upon a pedestal any more than he is truly boasting about his own power right now. It's more statement of fact than anything else. "So, I had to learn through my own methods."
There was no Master Eiji to teach and guide Vergil. There wasn't anyone. So, Vergil arguably has not learned what his father could do. But in a somewhat rare instance, Vergil doesn't view it as a failure or shortcoming on his part in not living up to the full extent of Sparda's legacy. What he's capable of doing suits his needs well, and unlike what Sparda did in forming Yamato, Rebellion, and Force Edge, Vergil will always be able to retain his power with Mirage Edge. There is no danger of it falling into the hands of another or someone Vergil did not will to wield it.
"I began with the smaller blades that you've seen, but I didn't possess such mastery over them immediately. I was only able to summon one at a time and slowly in the beginning." But as with anything, practice led to greater and greater speed and skill. Vergil eventually began to experiment as his confidence and ability grew. Now he can summon them just as easily as he draws breath, arranging them as he sees fit for each situation. "Each blade that I summon is made of my own power, including Mirage Edge. Without me, it would not exist."
So, the seemingly foolish question has an answer: Mirage Edge is a part of Vergil. It is a physical manifestation of his power and will that Mizu holds in his hands.
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Half-demon Vergil called himself and meant it literally. Mizu doesn't know what his demons are like, but she's familiar with how people treat someone born a mix of two types that should not mix. That in Vergil's case, people think should not mix. Just as she lacked a teacher to learn swordsmanship, Vergil did not have someone to teach him to make Mirage Edge. Her admiration for Vergil increases, different though the process of manifesting his power and forging a blade may be. It underscores how much of his fancier fighting style is self-made, and Mizu smiles a little. No matter how insane fighting him is, Mizu enjoys it, and she'll enjoy it even more after this.
The urge to rise, to take a fighting stance, and to practice with Mirage Edge is there, but Mizu remains sitting. Vergil did not give her permission to do that, and she will not take liberties with his sword. She runs a hand down the flat of the blade, enjoying its warm and design. Mizu does not covet Vergil's power. She relies on what she can do, but she respects it. She respects making this. Though she's seen all she needs to see of Mirage Edge, she holds onto it a little longer. Vergil could take it back at any time, not only by etiquette or force but by will. He lets her hold it and inspect it.
"That must have been hard," Mizu says. Not a compliment or an insult. "Now you are always armed, even when a fox spirit brings you to a new world."
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It's only when Mizu makes a motion to return it that Vergil will dismiss the blade. He has no issue with Mizu taking his time to inspect and admire the blade, and doing with as he wills with it. It's not as though Mizu could do anything to damage it and he certainly doesn't have command over it to begin tearing Vergil's apartment apart. Not that he thinks Mizu would consider the latter even if it were possible. Limiting themselves to just a training session with no weapons had been more out of respect for Vergil's space than concern for his still healing injuries for Mizu from what Vergil could discern. But barring Mizu attempting to return it to him, he leaves the blade entirely in Mizu's hands.
"It's arguably more useful when a swordsman with a degree of earned confidence but too much ambition decides he must make defeating me an impossible goal of his."
It's a teasing taunt and in his typical fashion, Vergil doesn't draw too much attention to it, but there is a compliment embedded in his words.
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"Impossible," Mizu repeats, her eyes on the sword but nearly laughing. It hurts too much to laugh. "Arrogance like that will only set the foundation for my victory."
She looks up for a moment, a challenging gleam in her eye. "Some day you will exhaust the supply of surprises you have in store I have not seen yet. Each time you are forced to reveal one, you lose."
Sorry, humility is not among Mizu's skills.
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"Is that so?" Vergil raises an eyebrow as he reclines back ever so slightly, resting some of his weight back onto a hand. Not that Vergil had his doubts that Mizu had recovered sufficiently in the time allotted for a short nap, some meditation, and a bit of food, but the look in his eyes, that spark of his usual fire tells Vergil that he is certainly recovered well by now. It's good to see even Vergil doesn't know quite how to articulate exactly why it is. He just knows that he goes looking for it every time they clash blades. "So, you must change the parameters of defines a victory in order to secure your success by declaring what's clearly been my victory my loss instead?"
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"It's your actions, your choices, that see them losses. Some supernatural ability you would not otherwise use being forced upon you," Mizu says, "If you did not pride yourself on holding them back, it would be meaningless. I said it was your loss, not my success. It is but a stepping stone which I will use to defeat you."
She hadn't brought multiple grenades today. Would they have done anything to that thick scaled skin that her sword did not? What properties are needed to breach it? Could Vergil have done the same while clearly struggling from internal damage? Mizu cannot claim pleasure at seeing Vergil stagger, injured as he was, but it is useful information, information she might need to win. With all he can do, there's no such thing as fighting fair. There never was.
She runs her fingers slowly across Mirage's Edge, feeling more than she can see with her eyes. This too will help her, not that she needs that reason to get to know it so closely.
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Regardless, Vergil was pushed a little harder today. The cuts and bruises still on his body, one of the latter being so prominent upon his face, are the lingering evidence of that. Even Mizu must have noticed by now that not all of Vergil's wounds have healed or even shown any visible signs of progress towards healing since the end of their latest bout. He supposes that as much as it is a bruising to his own ego, he can understand the pride Mizu takes and why it most certainly feels like an accomplishment. Vergil will never unleash his full strength against him, and that is a fact. But today, Vergil bled and bruised, and if it wasn't for his other form today, there's no telling if he wouldn't have been the one woozy and unable to walk straight for long.
He opts not to lecture or chastise Mizu for the use of his explosives. He doesn't balk or bristle at the feeling of defeat or the beating his own ego takes over it. Nor does he offer any further praise or acknowledgement of skill. Vergil simply lets it be, deciding neither to spoil nor encourage the other swordsman's pride. Mizu could rest well in his knowledge of a job well done today, and hold it close to his chest that for as invulnerable as Vergil is to a human like him, he's capable of pushing past Vergil's defenses and abilities.
"You may try it for yourself," he says instead, nodding at Mirage Edge. He's been watching Mizu touch it and examine it this whole time, but even Vergil is aware that touch and sight can only say so much about a blade. Wielding it is the only way to know its true nature. As Vergil gives his explicit consent, Mirage Edge crackles with just a little more energy. Not enough that it looks entirely as it does when Vergil begins tapping into its power with quick slashes that carry far beyond the initial strike. It's more akin to a blade being removed from its scabbard than that. Except Mirage Edge bears no scabbard, and so the sword somewhat comes alive with power instead.
Vergil knows it won't feel natural to Mizu's hands. The blade isn't at all similar to those Mizu has likely held before beyond just its origins, but also in its design and style. But he's seen enough of what Vergil does with it to likely understand some basic movements with the blade as it is that he can experiment whether through mimicking what he's seen of Vergil or trying something of his own making or knowledge. Vergil gestures with his free hand over towards what ought to be a living area that Vergil has left open for the sake of a training space. "Over there."
There isn't much in Vergil's apartment that could be potentially destroyed with any sort of reckless swinging, but better for Mizu to have more space than necessary than any sort of restrictions all the same.
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Even as thoughts and memories of Shindo dojo come to her, Mizu knows Vergil does not look at her the way she looked at those swordsmen, at all those swordsmen except Taigen. (Presumably the master of the dojo could equally be a challenge if he has not grown soft, but it would take far more for him to deem to fight her, and she did not need that from him). He never would have handed over his blade, never would have... she doesn't know, so much of what they've done, if he thought of her that way. His opinion of her won't change her opinion of herself, mind, but she would be disappointed, yes disappointed, to lose his company in sparring.
Instead he offers the use of his sword. Mizu's head shoots up, and she stares openly at him, mouth dropping open a little. After a moment or so for it to sink in as a serious offer (it's Vergil, it wouldn't be like him to joke about something so serious and personal), she pushes the covers further back, unfolds, and steps out of the bed onto the floor. Her foot is much better than before, and this opportunity makes her more grateful for it than she would be otherwise. What is limping around for a while compared to getting to take Mirage Edge through its paces?
"Yes," Mizu inhales, excited.
Mizu moves to the center of the training space, takes a deep breath, and despite the pain across her ribs and continued soreness in her arm takes up Vergil's ready position, the one he usually takes with Mirage Edge. Mizu pauses and adjusts her position to make it more correct in small details. Then she works through a series of basic moves Vergil regularly uses. She stops when she needs to in order to correct the technique. It's not her usual way of moving, but this has always been how she's learned. Observing and copying others. Mizu repeats herself over and over. Each movement focused on having the correct technique more than power or speed. That can come with time and experience.
Silly perhaps, but everything else falls away. The lingering pain. The enjoyable argument with Vergil. All of it, compared to a man and a sword and copying techniques. They will not work with her sword as she has, but the fox spirit offers different weapons at different times. This work, this from the inside out, is Vergil.
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Whatever jest or teasing remark Vergil might have conjured up as Mizu begins to work through the movements that he's seen time and again from Vergil quiets long before it can reach his lips. Watching from where he's seated near the foot of his bed, Vergil is quietly impressed. For one who accused Vergil of cheating in his innate ability to understand a weapon by mere touch, Mizu is not too far off that mark himself. He's been on the receiving end of Vergil's techniques a few times now, and he moves carefully through each set of moves. Without Vergil needing to say a word, he spots his own mistakes quickly. He pauses. Corrects. Finishes. Tries again. Each repetition carries the intent of perfecting it. There is nothing else beyond Mizu and Mirage Edge, following each step that he can of Vergil's repertoire. He'd anticipated that it wouldn't be a series of undisciplined, wild swings or some dull experimentation with the balance and weight, but Vergil hadn't expected this.
It's not exactly atypical for Vergil to have nothing to say. He's always been quiet and more reserved than most, leaving others to often wonder and speculate what it is going through his mind. But now isn't a moment of Vergil's typical silence so much as it is speechlessness because he wants to say something. Anything about Mizu's dedication and attention to detail to immediately recognize his own mistakes. The grace of his movements even while still recovering from injuries and no doubt experience his own degree of soreness. Vergil uncrosses his legs so that both feet now rest on the floor, sitting up straighter with his hands in his lap as words come to him.
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
They are not his own words and he does not speak them. But they and their meaning settle with each pulse of Vergil's heart because it's true. There is something inherently magnificent and greater than it seems about something as mundane as Mizu running through Vergil's movements and attempting to perfect them in his replication. Something that Vergil would not likely have been able to see or understand years ago, but he can come to appreciate now.
Vergil purses his lips slightly and almost wishes they were still outside with more space. Mizu wouldn't be able to control the other things that Mirage Edge can do beyond that of a typical blade. Mirage Edge isn't a fully realized Devil Arm wherein its wielder can access the full extent of its power like that if it accepts them as its master, but Vergil would still be able to exert his will over it. It would be interesting to see if they could work so in tandem with one another like that. He itches for more, wanting to summon his clone once more to give Mizu something to practice against or hell, to spar with Mizu again himself for another exhilarating bout.
But he makes no more suggestion than he does pay a compliment. It's greedy and selfish to want more right now with the state Mizu is in. His wounds may be closed, but he's lost a significant amount of blood and he's still not yet in his peak condition once more. Pushing him past his limits and encouraging that sort of behavior would likely only lead to disaster. Perhaps not today, but eventually. Vergil glances away to look outside the balcony, drawing an intentionally slow breath and releasing it before looking at Mizu again. This is enough, he tells himself. It is enough that Mizu practices as he does now, working with the strength and skill that he now possesses.
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It's the start of properly learning both this kind of sword, in so much as Mirage Edge represents a sword made of steel in the same shape, and the techniques. Mizu hardly expects to wield Mirage Edge in sparring, much less actual fighting where her life is on the line. That doesn't matter. Learning it is in and of itself a reward. It demonstrates so much more about the sword and the way Vergil uses it. Feeling her muscles go through the movement with the right sword teaches her a great deal. Mizu could readily go through it for hours with no thought to any other considerations (it is not as though Mizu ever has plans for the rest of the day, when she spars Vergil, this being the first time she heals at all the day of).
She moves into small combinations Vergil frequently uses. It takes up more of the space at a time, but there is plenty. Mizu remains aware enough to know she won't hit anything. That's all she needs. Focused as she is, Mizu enjoys herself immensely. It carries on she's not sure how long, but her body in time shows its limits. There's some soreness, but she also feels somewhat woozy. Those aren't things that concern her terribly, save that her technique, carefully practiced, starts to slip and need more corrections. That simply won't do. Mizu will not compromise her body's learning of the moves. With some regret it's already over (already? after how long?), Mizu lowers Mirage Edge.
She walks smoothly, by force of will, back toward Vergil on the bed, bows with the sword resting across both her hands, and offers it back. Once he takes it, Mizu returns to the other end of the bed and sits. Before she practiced with Mirage Edge, she was ready to go home under her own power. For a short bit, she needs another break. That's all. It will be short before she's ready again. She's no invalid.
"Mirage Edge is incredible," Mizu says. Her face would be flush had she more blood in her body. Instead, her breathing is harder. It doesn't matter. She's lit up from within. "Very different from what I'm used to. I'd have to make a hundred terrible swords like it to finally make one of that shape and balance properly. It still wouldn't be Mirage Edge." She knows it's not steel the way her swords are.
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Vergil isn't sad or disappointed about the fact Mizu will take his leave, and return to his home in Wintermute, but Vergil can't say he's...minded this extra time with Mizu either. It hasn't been unpleasant.
"Drink," he says, nodding to Mizu's glass and the pitcher still on the nightstand. It will help with his breathing, forcing him to slow it back down to something gentler, and continue re-hydrating him after the day's activities. Vergil doesn't leave Mizu's words without a response though. Prompting him to care to his physical needs merely took some priority. "You seemed to take to it quickly. For as different as it is to you. You've been keeping a close eye on how I wield it."
Which perhaps goes without saying, Vergil finds impressive. It's one thing to watch Vergil's swordplay alone and be able to replicate it well. It's another to watch it when it's being used against Mizu and replicate it well. He was attentive to his footwork, where his hands ought to be with each movement, and how he should be angled toward and imaginary opponent. Even with Vergil's natural abilities and his own discipline, he couldn't claim to be able to do the same in return.
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Her breathing is a little better, and Mizu grins tiredly at Vergil for the compliment. A small nod. It is often easy in Japan to identify the school a swordsman trained in and know what techniques he will use. Those fights take little effort as she uses the techniques that best counter that style, and that is all. It takes a particularly skilled fighter and/or an unfamiliar one to demand that much of her. But oh, what fun it is to learn by fighting someone.
"I mean to defeat you," Mizu says, "I must know how to predict what you do, down to every detail, so I can more effectively create and utilize openings and advantages. It is even better practicing with Mirage Edge to understand the movements. Not as easy to incorporate for use with my sword, but can't have things be too easy. That'd be boring."
There's few people she's meant to defeat she gets along with well, none she's explained that she's doing that. Then again, no one's been interested in or paid attention to the fact she does it.
"You've seen only a sliver of the styles I know. So many of them are useless to outright foolish against you."
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Instead, Vergil hums thoughtfully.
"You're beginning to sound like Dante," he says. "But I would hazard there's more truth to your words than his."
Dante and Vergil have fought one another more times than either of them could possibly count. So, Vergil could never reasonably claim that Dante knows nothing of his mind or what he might do when they fight one another. They both know each other well after all these years and conflicts between them. But Vergil would struggle to believe Dante is nearly as consciously thoughtful about it as Mizu is in navigating his knowledge of Vergil. He doesn't read Vergil as an open book as he claims. Dante moves on instinct, quick to react and change his approach if necessary, but it's never a carefully selected decision to counter what Vergil does. He doesn't intentionally bait Vergil into creating vulnerabilities that he can exploit. He's just as wild and unpredictable as Vergil is calculating and controlled. Fighting Dante is akin to taming the wind in that regard. He does as he wills for better or for worse, and perhaps that's why there's always been a part of Vergil that's enjoyed their bouts with one another. There is something of merit there with Dante's approach even if Vergil would be loath to acknowledge as much, and he knows he's doing well when he's able to defeat someone as unpredictable as Dante.
"You would find his approach more difficult to memorize than mine. He has good instinct, but that's the trouble with trying to predict what he will do."
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Her smile doesn't go away. Instead it lops to one side. "I welcome Dante to arrive. I will defeat him as well, should he be willing to fight, and enjoy the process along the way. I never tire of getting better, and an unpredictable opponent forces other skills to improve."
By the time she defeats one, much less both, of them, Mizu's fathers shouldn't stand a chance. That alone would make her smile were she not already smiling. It is strange to feel so happy. The anger remains, as ever, but it isn't forefront as usual. Mizu stretches and checks how she feels. Not the best, but she can walk.
"Thank you for... all of this."
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"I think you'd agree better this than the alternative of someone else finding you and making a scene over it." No doubt another Star Child would be sent into a panic to find him as bloody of a mess as he was passed out near the train station. Assuming he even made it that far, of course. Vergil isn't unconvinced that he wouldn't have made it more than a few steps before his legs gave out on him from the loss of blood alone. So, if he thinks Vergil is insistent and a pest when it comes to taking care of himself after their fights, he would be in for quite the rude awakening if anyone else with less familiarity with him were to find him. At least Vergil's willing to offer a modicum of trust in Mizu that when he says he will be fine, he's able to believe it. "I hope we can..."
He almost says see one another again, but it feels immediately foolish and causes him to stay his tongue. To Vergil, it's a childish thing to say even if he does enjoy Mizu's company and there is perhaps something here that could be considered a comradery of sorts. Besides, Mizu's focus is on his own goals and his own aims. Not to say that he hasn't been willing to lend Vergil a bit of a hand now and again or that he's been opposed to any time they spend outside of what directly links to those goals, but only a fool would entirely ignoring Mizu's motivations. And Vergil would do well to remember that, he thinks. Lest he get ahead of himself and make a less safe assumption that leads to a tension or fracture in things. He would hate to lose Mizu's company because he chose to be overzealous.
Vergil looks away for a brief moment before he corrects himself, "I hope we can spar again soon."
The sentiment is no less sincere even if it wasn't entirely what he intended to say at first.
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Mizu nearly died once because no one would give her aid, especially not someone like her. If she hadn't found her motherβ If she hadn't found the woman who first raised her, she would have died. She was a fool then, the way she got that injury. Mizu has learned better. Ah well, Mizu would not let anyone accost her terribly. At worst, she would invoke they take her to Amrita Academy, what passes as the most intensive medical care. Then, once they left, she would take her leave. That would be that.
More water before she leaves, the best no one gets the wrong idea about her ability to walk herself home. She hears the pause in Vergil's words and makes no move to leave while he chooses them. Mizu waits. Then she gives Vergil a weird look. With this healing ability, it will be soon. "We could probably spar again in a few days. Incredibly, needing to spend time at the library may become a larger impediment than anything else. I cannot count on research time on days we spar."
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"You could bring books with you," he suggests. "It would give you something to do without exerting yourself too soon."
Mizu is clearly too stubborn to fully and completely rest as he probably should even with his healing ability. The fact that he was willing to lay down and sleep at all today, and the simple fact he's still seated now after a bit of minor exertion is nothing short of a miracle. But perhaps he would be less eager to bolt before he had enough immediate recovery to manage independently if he felt like the time at rest wasn't such a waste.
"We also do not always have to spar like this either. You said as much yourself that there are other ways for you to improve than merely fighting me. You also previously assured me before you'd improve your hand-to-hand. Neither time with Mirage Edge nor hand-to-hand ought to leave you unable to make use of the rest of your day."
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Time with Mirage Edge.
That simple phrase amid the conversation about alternative sparring options sends her heart racing through her chest. She will get to wield it again? His sword. Not his primary sword, no, but his sword, a sword he made. The sense of responsibility to keep watch or the desire to face a better opponent are not enough to explain such a great allowance with something so personal. Mizu has no idea what has moved Vergil to such lengths, but she dare not ask, lest that prompt him to remove his offer, his permission.
Mizu makes note to work on forging blades like Mirage Edge for practice. She can always reforge the same steel time and again. There are not enough Star Children for her to master it. She could give each a blade of questionable quality and still not have one that meets her standards. Her standards are high, higher than some people's yes, but best she make one she likes. There will be more time spent forging in her future. Oh right, conversation.
"I am improving my hand-to-hand. I'd planned to reach a certain level, but," Mizu shrugs. She can handle losing, much as she isn't used to losing while grappling, even against larger opponents. "We can always practice before then. And Mirage Edge..." There's nowhere to look to see the blade, disappeared as it is. "It would be a pleasure." An absolutely heartfelt sentiment.
She smirks. "I assure you that I have never relied solely upon fighting you to improve my skills. I set aside time daily to train. I never want my skills to rust."
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Being in Folkmore doesn't appear to have lessened Mizu's desire for revenge in any meaningful way. Perhaps it is delaying it a bit in terms of direct action, but that delay does not mean much to Mizu. He's eager, but he's willing to demonstrate some patience and take advantage of the time he has here to study, learn, and train. Vergil wonders if the same would be true if he hadn't come here, but he doesn't think so. If there was a genuine barrier to Mizu pursuing his quarry, he'd seek the path forward while maintaining his skills. Obstacles could never likely dissuade something that seems to be so deeply embedded into the fabric of Mizu's being that it pulses through him with every beating of his heart.
"You would be boring if otherwise were true." It would be too stagnant in fighting Mizu again and again if there weren't signs of improvement each time, if Mizu didn't push him in his own way. "I can assure you that it's not a reflection of your skills or strength, so I don't mean it as an insult, but it's actually more difficult for me to hold back than anything else when we fight. Outside of fights and sparring as a child with Dante, every fight for me has been to the death."
He hums in light amusement as he looks away from Mizu again. In the grand scheme of his life, most were no contest. He dispatched his foes quickly and easily, usually with a single strike of Yamato. A few, however, Vergil's life was on the line, too, not just his opponent's life. There was no room for mistakes or easing up at any point during those battles, and Vergil had to use every ounce of his strength and power to see them through to the end.
"You're not the same. Each time we've fought, you've grown even if it's just a little. It keeps it...interesting. I have to rely on more than just my power alone, and the more you improve, the more I must think." He looks back at Mizu again, considering the other man for a moment before he smiles faintly and looks back outside the balcony. "I suppose in a strange sense, I almost want to see you defeat me in battle someday. For a human to have worked so hard and honed his skills so much to accomplish something like that, I would think of that as something remarkable, not shameful."
Vergil still views it as an impossible feat. As he said, he's holding back a great deal in each fight with Mizu to avoid putting an end to their sparring too early or to bring about irrevocable harm to Mizu. Even as Mizu grows and Vergil happens to find himself needing to access more of his power to maintain his victory over the other swordsman, there is still a great wealth of it not yet tapped into. It's unlikely Mizu will ever go that far as a human to result in Vergil approaching their sparring with his all. But he would not rob Mizu of the accomplishment if it were to happen. Bruised as Vergil's ego would be in the moment for losing, another part of him wouldn't see it as a shameful defeat and would be able to recognize all that Mizu would have had to do to get to that point.
"That being said, if your plan next time is more explosives, I would advise you to reconsider." He glances at Mizu out of the corner of his eye. "You reveal things as well each time we fight, Mizu, and you would do well to remember that."
He's mostly teasing, but there's also an undercurrent to which he is being sincere, too. Mizu won't be able to pull something like the stunt he pulled today again. Vergil will be prepared for it next time.
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No doubt some of those men would have been fine killing her, but they were not threats. Taigen was her most worthy opponent, and still she won. There have been similar circumstances when she's chosen not to kill. The hunt for information and the hunt for her fathers are not the same. A reputation as such a killer would impede her, not help her. Mizu is not the Four Fangs. She has no desire to be.
Vergil is much harder to kill than most men, so Mizu hasn't had to hold back the way she knows he is. After all, he could have been in that warmer form with thus far impenetrable scales the whole time. Instead, he usually works to avoid, block, or parry her attacks. When she manages to injure him, he heals quickly, so it doesn't limit him for long in their fights. Except for the explosion today. Mizu had bet he could survive it, and she was right. That said, she can still see the evidence of what it cost him today. Today. Mizu believes Vergil will be better prepared for it in the future. She still smiles at his words. "You would be boring if otherwise were true," she repeats back at him. "I will not promise the presence or absence of explosives. Though I remember our promise not to kill each other. The last opponent I used an explosive on, I stuck it in his neck. I deemed that too likely to kill you if successfully carried out."
She's mostly teasing, but Mizu cannot forget those moments when she thought she was wrong and that she'd gone too far. When Vergil's double disappeared, and she was left alone in the street unsure whether he were alive or dead. It may be much rarer for her to need to hold back on her attacks, but as determined as she is, as ferociously as she fights, Mizu never forgets her aim is not to kill him. He is not her enemy.
"Don't worry. You'll get to see something that remarkable one day. I'll make sure of it."
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Honestly, he thinks if Mizu's temperament were different, he'd likely prefer the company of Dante over Vergil if he has the mind for such stunts as that. Then again, Vergil is of his own temperament and he... Well, he minds his brother a lot, but he can't truthfully say he dislikes his brother's company. But Dante is not here. It is Vergil alone. So, Mizu doesn't really get his pick as it were.
"Time will tell one way or another," he says, agreeing as far as he's willing to possibly agree to the notion that Mizu will ever best him.
Vergil wouldn't say that he's sad or disappointed by the time Mizu eventually leaves. They fought well today and the conversation afterward didn't feel like such an uncertain mess afterward as some of their others had in the past. If anything it was...nice. Pleasant even when occasionally coupled with less pleasant memories and thoughts. Easier than expected.
He doesn't offer to walk Mizu to the train station, having felt he infringed upon the other swordsman's dignity enough by carrying him to the apartment in the first place. Thus, he only walks him to the door out of politeness rather than concern, but he does linger by his door for a few moments longer after the door is closed behind Mizu. The half-devil listens to Mizu's footfalls to be certain they remain steady in gait and pace, satisfied before Mizu can even leave his earshot. Vergil steps away then to attend to the dishes he'd neglected in favor of Mizu's company. As he walks from the front door to the kitchen, he glances into his training area. He remains fastidious and focused as always as he cleans the dishes and eventually changing out the sheets on his bed, but his mind drifts easily again and again to Mizu wielding Mirage Edge.
Late July?
"This'll do," Mizu says plainly. It will be the first time they spar with her new sword. She's ready to go and takes up a decent position, sword not yet drawn. Her attention goes to behind Vergil, and in a quick motion, she draws her sword, still sheathed, and accelerates past him to slam it into a ghost aiming for his back with unfriendly intentions, if she had to guess. Possibly, it aimed for her, and Vergil was only in the way. Mizu isn't sure.
What's for certain is that it draws the attention of other ghosts. Mizu groans, annoyed. "Get your own sparring partners."
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"From the looks of it, you could use the warm-up." He's teasing, of course. If they can't cross blades just yet, they may as well still have their banter if nothing else. Vergil scans among the ghosts to get a general count of how many seem prepared now to go on the offensive. It seems a few opt to flee rather than fight, but there are still plenty yet that appear to be gathering themselves up. Vergil positions himself just behind Mizu and looks over his shoulder at him. "Still, let us dispense of this trash quickly so that we might move onto more important matters."
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She nods, turning her head slightly toward Vergil. "Agreed."
The room is cool and dark, with light only filtering through a few slats. Mizu isn't immediately certain what sort of place this building used to be. It's appears old enough not to belong to the living. Like they're the trespassers. Mizu dispatches her ghosts in rapid succession and winds up by theβ
place where the door had been. It's become a solid wall. "Oh, they want us to stay. They like us a bit too much."
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"They'll come to regret that."
Although, Vergil cannot help but notice there doesn't seem to be any signs of an end to these ghosts. Their forms dissipate and seemingly wisp away when delivered what would likely constitute a mortal blow were they still alive, but either there's a significant number of spirits here or they just need a few moments to return for more. The answer perhaps doesn't matter entirely too much in the grand scheme of things when it seems the ghosts are not to be discouraged. The bottom line is they cannot fight these ghosts ad infinitum. Mizu will tire first and Vergil will do the same eventually. So, Vergil reverses his grip as he draws Mirage Edge behind him, lowering his stance as he pours his infernal energy into Mirage Edge. His aim is to take a few of the ghosts out, of course, but he also seeks to simply cut their way out of the building if that's what it will take. It seems unlikely to work if Thirteen has had her hand in any of this, but it merits experimenting nonetheless.
Of all the times to not have Yamato...
But he can't dwell on it and he must work with what they have at hand. Once Mirage Edge has crackled into enough life and before the ghosts can close in on him, Vergil swings the blade and releases the energy in the same formation that had once shredded Mizu's side towards the nearest wall.
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What feels like half the room explodes with Vergil's power, channeled through Mirage Edge. Her side nearly winces in sympathetic injury. It clears a path to another room, however, so Mizu follows in the wake of the incredible damage it caused into the next room. That's clearly what Vergil intendedβone step to getting out of this place and away from the ghosts. One step back toward what matters more.
Thanks to the explosion, the next room is messy, large splinters going into everything. It's another business of some kind, with a long counter along one wall and a selection of glass jars in the wall behind it. Perhaps an herbalist? It doesn't matter. What's important but is that it has a hearth. The fire is long out, the ashes cold and gray. Beside them, however, is an iron poker. Mizu grabs it, adjusts her grip, and slashes out at the nearest ghosts that trailed after her with reaching arms. The iron goes right through them, and they disappear in a wail.
"There's a door at the back," Mizu points out, "if you feel like using those." A grin.
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If this is one of Thirteen's trials, Vergil finds it immediately tedious. Then again, that judgment could be easily clouded by the fact he was promised a different fight than this one that anything less is going to leave him unsatisfied.
"Very funny," he says, wrinkling his nose as he whirls Mirage Edge around, stabbing behind himself as one of the ghosts phase through the wall after them. He frees Mirage Edge from the wall, not bothering to see if it repairs itself once more and nods for Mizu to lead the way then. He spares a glance at Mizu's newfound weapon. "Iron is it?"
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"Not a solid set of tongs, but it'll do for spirits," Mizu says. She opens the door, which swings as is common in Folkmore instead of slides, and bows to motion Vergil through. Nothing so far has been a great danger to them, only serious in that they cannot ignore it. Much as Mizu wishes to spar Vergil, she's choosing to have a good time of it. A good violent time. Someone else can solve the spirits' woes if that's what's needed.
"How little of your abilities do you think you need to face our current situation?" Mizu asks conversationally.
π
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[And he always knew the culprit back then, too.]
[For that night, he leaves them on his nightstand, staring at them in the dark, his gaze tracing the lettering on their spines until he can take it no longer. Vergil flips on the light on the nightstand and plucks the book at the top of the stack. When he wakes in the morning, his thumb lightly holds his place as the book rests on the pillow beside his face, the nightstand light still on.]
[Vergil lets it be entirely for a little while after the books' appearance, the books resting neatly on the overall barren bookshelf when not in use. (Vergil notices occasionally they're not quite as they were left behind, but... Who knows with all the commotion lately? Without many more books to support them, they could have easily been shifted a bit and one of the other two righted them upon seeing them.) He waits for some kind of comment to come though in letting it be. After all, it had been Dante who seemed puzzled by the idea that Vergil wouldn't keep all that many books of his own, and that Vergil was overall generally opposed to the idea. Surely there was some sort of smug I told you so looming on the horizon. There didn't seem to a possibility for Dante to have such restraint. Not when Vergil so clearly liked the gift.]
[But the days stretch on without a single comment, and Vergil never exactly finds a way to work it into a conversation.]
[He looks up from Paradise Lost when he hears the front door to the apartment open. He's curled up on the couchβthe pull-out tucked away when not in usedβwith a mug of tea in one hand resting on the arm, his knees drawn up and propping the book up. Vergil has to admit the couch has been a decent investment thus far compared to reading at the table.]
You're home early. [His feet find the floor once more as he closes the book. It is starting to get a bit later in the day and Vergil should probably start seeing to dinner since it's his turn to cook. Pausing a moment as Dante closes the door behind him, he asks,] Nero isn't with you?
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Nope. Doesn't look like it.
( Cheesy little grin on his lips to show he's giving Vergil a bit of shit for that question, he goes back to his whistling as he makes his way over to where he has his very small stash of things he's gotten for himself here in Epiphany thus far. It's mostly a few stacked food boxes β empty thankfully β as well as a couple nearly finished bottles of something alcoholic. Then there's his outfit he'd worn when taking down a punk by the name of Argosax slung over whatever there; Ebony and Ivory always with him in their holsters. But he goes over to add the new bottle with the others. Cool.
Turning on his heel, he oh-so-dramatically drops himself down onto the couch there with Vergil, lounging his way across it and leaning there on his arm as he tilts his head, looking up to Vergil in doing so. )
Doing some light reading there?
( He's being funny because he damn well knows that particular book is not, by any means, light reading. )
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[If one could call them as much. To Vergil, it was beginning to look like the younger son of Sparda was beginning a small trashpile in the apartment. It was nothing unsanitary and it was contained, which meant that Vergil held his tongue on the matter for now in an effort to maintain peace between his brother and him, but it was notable that its contents were largely nothing particularly permanent in nature. Vergil's gaze moves from the pile to Dante when he asks his question, rolling his eyes. Ah, so here it comes. The I told you so. It's only a matter of time.]
I thought I would take advantage of the quiet while you and Nero content yourselves with your work, [he says with a slight nod in the direction of the balcony to refer to the mess outside. Unlike his brother and nephew, Vergil has not lifted a finger to assist with the clean-up and rebuilding. His attention and focus has been more centralized to the apartment. His gaze goes back to Dante's pile, and he perhaps delays Dante's I told you so for a brief moment longer.] There's an entire kitchen in this apartment you know. That's typically where people who reside somewhere tend to store food and beverages, or so I'm told.
[Vergil pulls his feet back up onto the couch, drawing his knees up again as he looks at Dante. But not without a light shove to Dante's foot for encroaching on his temporarily claimed part of the couch. He does not, however, reopen the book and leaves it closed in his lap.]
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Pulling back to sit upright, he cracks it open. )
What're you reading anyways?
( Flipping through the pages, he stops on a random one and scans the page with a curious hum on his lips as he does. He's familiar with it β has a copy of this exact same edition stored back at the shop along with all the others by this author. Not for his own personal reading, but, much like the photograph of Eva on his desk, to have as a reminder of days long gone. Of someone he loves long gone.
Holding the book back from himself, he squints at it before he starts reading aloud. )
Let's see... once upon a time, there was a great devil hunter named Dante. ( He grins over to Vergil then continues. ) The most handsome in all the land and strongest of devil hunters. Wow, this guy sounds pretty cool.
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[It does not quite play out like that now. Vergil frowns, his gaze like that of a hawk on Dante's handling of the book, but he does not lunge for the it any further and settles back into his part of the couch. Without his book in his lap, Vergil's mug of tea takes its place held within both his hands. He frowns further at that stupid lopsided grin sent his way, rolling his eyes in perhaps a bit of an exaggerated manner at Dante's absurd claims.]
You clearly haven't read far enough yet if you think that. I believe there's something about him also being the most irritating little brother to have ever walked the earth, and absurdly thinks he can convince anyone he knows how to read.
[For all that Vergil appears to be insulting Dante at present, there's no actual bite or venom to his words. Annoyed though he may be that Dante's snatched his book away instead of just asking for it, Vergil's mood is not made immediately foul by the move. He can roll with Dante's antics a little every now and again even if he'd never care to admit it.]
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Maybe it's because unlike some people I actually read interesting things and not high art in text form.
( Like his gun magazines and... other particular reading material that has pictures of mostly women in it, but hey. Those articles, man. Those articles. But hey, Vergil's reading it. Just like he knew he would and he's glad to see his brother take the time to enjoy the things he used to again. That alone makes this worth the Lore purchase.
Book in hand, he gently bops it off the top of his brother's head before he sets it down and swings himself over the back of the couch, red coat fluttering after him as he does, making his way over to the kitchen area with another whistle on his lips. )
I'm hungry. Anything good around here to eat?
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I just went to the hospitality station a few days ago for more food, [he says, picking the book up from where Dante left it. He holds it a little closer to himself, more protectively to avoid any other potential yoinking away from him even if it's unlikely Dante will bother with it.] Unless Nero has already helped himself and ate them all, there should be more of those potato crisps you two seem to like in the snack cabinet. There are also more strawberries in the fridge, and more of those frozen...quesadillas you can microwave.
[His hesitation in calling them quesadillas isn't uncertainty about their name, but he doesn't think ready-to-eat, microwaveable food like that should ever be called what they're purportedly meant to be. He's no expert, but he is still certain he could do better. Perhaps he ought to look into it, he thinks, drumming his fingers against the back cover of his book. He could make them to a similar, smaller size, and freeze them, and Nero and Dante could microwave them anytime they wanted... They would hopefully taste better, but at the very least, they would not have that strange...cardboard texture that bothers Vergil but doesn't seem to bother either of his relatives.]
[He shakes himself from his thoughts to provide the rest of the answer to Dante's question.]
If you're looking for something more substantial, I can start dinner, or you can help yourself to leftovers or a sandwich. Or if a sandwich is too much work, cereal is an option.
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Jackpot.
( Laugh soft on his lips, he pulls out the strawberries and pops one right away into his mouth as he takes the whole basket/bowl with him back for the couch, head bobbing still.
Strawberry between his teeth, he smiles around it to his brother and drops himself right back down on the couch there beside him, setting the strawberries there in his lap as he starts going at them one at a time, savoring each and every one.
A turn of his head to his brother, he holds a strawberry out for him. )
Want one? I'll share.
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I got them for you to enjoy. [He looks back down at his book before having a sip of his tea.] I know a lot of time has passed and it's possible your tastes have changed, but I assumed they were still your favorite.
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Swinging his leg closest to Vergil up, he drapes it over his brother's legs the best he can just because and keeps indulging in his strawberries there. It's not so strange of him to do, having done so many times when they were younger and Vergil was there reading one of his books. Always as a means to remind the other that he was right there lest he decided to forget for even just a minute or two. It comes with their being twins β so close to one another and really only having each other since long before birth. The fact he seems to fall back into it so easily without even questioning it... maybe he will later. When he's alone. Who's to say how his mood will shift when left by himself and his thoughts.
Never really being a fan of silence, he glances over to his brother there, another strawberry shoved in his mouth as he does. )
So. ( A beat, another strawberry popped in his mouth. ) Spending some nights away, huh? Bow chicka wow wow.
( And here comes the grin. )
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[A comfortable silence that Dante shatters without hesitation. Vergil heaves a sigh as he looks up from his book, regarding his brother with a look that's both visibly annoyed and suspicious about where this conversation could potentially lead itself.]
On occasion, I like to sleep without disruptions. Mizu lives alone and you snore at a deafening volume most nights.
[Vergil keeps it matter-of-fact and looks back to his book.]
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To be determined how long that may or may not last of course. )
Yeah. I'll bet there's all sorts of other deafening volumes there.
( Chuckling around a strawberry as he says that, grin still plastered all over his face, nudging his brother with an elbow. )
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It is none of your business either way. [Vergil turns the page and he does not look at that stupid look on his brother's face. (He doesn't need to when he can feel how wide that grin likely is on Dante's face.) Especially not when the tips of Vergil's ears are starting to turn pink.] I tell you when I am going to be away as a courtesy. So, you know where I am for the night in case anything were to happen.
[Not for you to offer your commentary on his sex life, Dante!]
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Hey, I think it's great you're still staying active in your old age. Making sure everything still works like it should.
( Waggling his eyebrows at that, he pops another couple of strawberries in his mouth and... welp. That's that. No more strawberries. Didn't take long at all for him to just devour them. As expected, really. Bowl in hand, he gets himself up off the couch and rounds it to head back for the kitchen area, not before giving a couple pats to Vergil's shoulder though. )
Also, how's anyone supposed to get ahold of you when you don't even use the relic thing we've got here?
( Riddle him that, Vergil. )
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[Most irritating little brother to ever walk the earth, indeed.]
The farthest I ever tend to go from anywhere in Epiphany by choice is Mizu's cabin in Wintermute. [And by Vergil's estimation, it shouldn't take the Relic to connect with Vergil in Epiphany. Vergil only goes to a few limited spots after all.] And he uses his Relic, so you could just as easily call him if you needed me.
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( It's asked with a scoff and shake of his head as he looks around for where to put the bowl and opts for... the sink. Yeah. That's where that's going. )
What if you guys are in the middle of going at it and I interrupt or something? Do you think I want to be subjected to such indecency from my big brother?
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Dante... [He audibly huffs as he opens his eyes again, his gaze more towards the ceiling than at his brother at present.] Going along with your false assumption that I am only ever at Mizu's for the purposes of sex, what difference would it make calling his Relic versus mine in an emergency in that circumstance?
[That is not even addressing the fact that neither Mizu nor Vergil would ever just answer while still in the middle of something like that in the first place. Even without the need to protect Mizu's secret, they would still separate and there would be nothing to witness. That's just a matter of common decency.]
[Nor is it addressing the fact Vergil's Relic is missing, so the point is ultimately moot to begin with.]
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Look, you don't even need to worry. Something happens? I'll take care of it.
( Just like always.
Stopping there at his little pile, he reaches for the new bottle he'd brought in with him, grabbing it by the neck with the tips of his fingers before he turns back to look to his brother. )
I got you, bro. Just live your life here.
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[On an extremely basic level, what Dante is suggesting does not sit well with Vergil. A life worth living, to him, is one that he should always wish to protect and fight for. To ask Vergil to live his life, but allow someone elseβeven his own brotherβto be the one to ensure there is no threat to it is simply antithetical to Vergil even without that endless drive for power. No matter how much Vergil has craved to be loved and to be protected, he could never idly stand by if those he has chosen to love, chosen to care for are in any sort of danger. Regardless of the temporary nature of this life he has managed to start to eke out for himself here in Folkmore... It is Vergil's, and that makes it his to protect with everything he has.]
[But far deeper and greater than that basic principle is the way Dante says it. Just live your life here. It sits poorly with Vergil. It's as though despite being perfectly within reach, Dante is hundreds of miles away. Just live your life here. As though Dante is not a part of it let alone an important part of it. Glaring at a spot on the floor, Vergil purses his lips. This is why he's left in indecision.]
[Short of more literally drilling it into his skull, while she was alive, Eva never let Vergil forget that his responsibility as the eldest was to look after his little brother. At the time, he resented it, of course. What child wouldn't? Especially when taking into consideration they were twins, and no matter whatever reassurances could be offered, they were still expected more than regular siblings to share in all things with each other. So, not only was Vergil being asked to share when he did not want to, make concessions on his quiet to appease his little brother, he was also asked to take responsibility for Dante. But then Eva died. Eva died and the Yamato protected him, and those events shaped so much of his life by themselves, but Eva was not the only person that Vergil mourned, the only person he lost and led him to swear off ever allowing someone that sort of closeness to him ever again.]
[He thought Dante had been taken from him, too. That he had been too weak. That his selfish, childish aggravation with Dante that day had...]
[Vergil knows he's failed Dante as a brother more than he hasn't, and that even when excluding times when he was not entirely himself, he'd plainly resented it. But that's not what Vergil wants. Deep in his heart, he's never wanted to be alone or without his brother even with all their differences, and their inability to truly resolve any of them between one another. For as much as Dante drives him insane... He will always been Vergil's little brother. And he wants things to be different, to be better between them.]
I have been looking at some of the houses in the area. This is working for now, [he says with a vague gesture of his hand to what used to be just his apartment,] but you could use more clothes than the ones you own already and there isn't enough room in here for storage like that. I also wouldn't mind having my own room again on the off-chance Mizu feels brave enough to weather your nonsense for a night or two. And I don't know what Nero's plans are, but I was thinking regardless of whether he chooses to stay or go, having a bed available to him rather than sleeping on this thing would be preferred.
[Vergil is looking anywhere but at Dante as he says any of this. Even if he's learned from his mistake in the woods that day of pressing too much of an interest or otherwise protest to Dante's assertions, there's still a degree to which he doesn't know how Dante will take this. If he will agree to it or not. Vergil supposes it doesn't really...matter. It's not as though they won't still see each other. It will just take more effort than it does now to make that happen, that's all. But it bruised before, and Vergil doesn't want something like this, something that he's trying to say without perhaps saying it directly, to potentially spark an argument.]
There aren't many, but there are a few three bedrooms that seem as though they should suffice. You could... [He clears his throat and tries again, more firmly.] You could come with me tomorrow to see which ones you prefer.
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But he did it. Over and over and over again until it was pretty much all he knew. It hurt sometimes β ripped his heart out and left him crying on the floor of his office after losing Vergil again. He's mourned his brother three times in his life and each time, it's damn nearly killed him. He still doesn't know how he survived each time. Because he never got over it, no. He survived. Just as he did that day back at their old home in Redgrave. Getting over it would imply he still doesn't hurt from it β still doesn't have wounds that bleed when he thinks too much about it. But he does. All over his heart and they still hurt like a bitch when they're torn open by unexpected force.
He takes a sort of pride in what does, sure. Keeping the human realm safe... it's given him a sort of purpose in life. Even if it's tiring some days and he's left wondering if it'll ever really end. So he doesn't even really think twice about offering to handle whatever might happen here or in their lives. It's... what he does. What he's done for years even when he thinks he can barely get through it. So to see the reaction from his brother there when he says what he does, it has him pause in the twisting of the cap off his bottle and he stares over to him when he goes on about looking for some place else. Somewhere bigger.
For a moment, he's quiet. Eyes roaming their gaze around the place with hands stilled on the bottle. He's not about to disagree that a bigger place would be nicer for them, but. After learning about Mizu and Vergil's wandering off some nightsβ not to mention Nero being here and the both of them knowing who they are to one another... he figured this was all temporary until he found some place for himself. So for that to not be the case as he'd assumed... he stands there. Silent. A little unsure how to respond to that, especially the part about looking at places together.
Teeth gently press into his bottom lip, gaze dropping down to the bottle he holds. Serious conversations between them have usually led to an argument at some point in them, often due to their being at odds with one another β differing points of views. This, however, isn't necessarily the case and it's why he's not sure what to say. Vergil is trying. He can see that. It's what he's always wanted his brother to do and yet, the moment he does, he's left unsure with how to react to it. At least for a moment.
In the silence that falls over them, there's a sort of tempered contentment there as he'd had when he was a child and Vergil finally gave in to wanting to play with him. The smile that touches his lips faint and hidden before he finds it within him to finally say something. )
So you wanna play house with me, huh? You do the cooking, I do the dishes. We take turns taking the trash out. Socks on the doorknobs as a courtesy to each other.
( Good way to break any tension there with throwing in a nonchalance about it all. Shrug of his shoulders, he holds his arms out at his sides some. )
Alright. But on one condition. ( To which he smiles. ) I want a jukebox.
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[Well, not exactly.]
[The moment Dante agrees to it, something in Vergil lights up and warms immediately. Dante's nonchalance and jokes do nothing to dampen it or the smile that not only curves Vergil's lips, but reaches his eyes. He didn't hold an expectation either way what Dante's answer would be, but the answer he receives leaves him pleased. No... No, not pleased. Happy.]
[It's a strange, funny feeling.]
Fine. But it's off after midnight. One, at the absolute latest. [He looks back down at the book in his lap briefly before looking at Dante again.] And you are doing the dishes if you're expecting me to cook. It's the least you can do considering the mess I'm sure you and that woman [Trish; don't think Vergil hasn't noticed the fridge becoming emptier a little faster than anticipated] are going to make in the rest of the house.
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Her name is Trish not that woman. Jesus, Verge.
( Shake of his head, he takes a swig and licks over his lips as he wanders around the room a little. )
And before you get any ideas, I'm not banging her. ( He points to his brother while holding the bottle, feeling the need to just Get That Out There just in case. ) She's my friend and we've been through shit together.
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I figured as much...? [The question in his tone is really only an unspoken question as to why Dante thinks that's what Vergil would conclude. He shakes his head as he extends his legs on the couch since Dante has taken to mildly wandering rather than sitting back down. He is still frowning in disgust though. Gross.] She isn't over here as often as she is for Nero's sake and certainly not for mine, in any case. I assumed that after...
[Vergil trails off, not really sure how to put it in a succinct way that doesn't feel as though they're about to tread into thoughts and memories neither one of them is liable to want to remember. He lets it be, returning to the point.]
I assumed the two of you must have remained close based on how often she is here. [He pauses a moment before adding,] I'm glad you have a friend here with you at least. Unfortunate that Lady could not also be here.
[He bothered to remember her name at least. Well. It's less a matter that he did or did not remember Trish's name, and just more what baggage comes with her existence for Vergil. Lady does not come with that, so she's a touch easier for Vergil to talk about even if he certainly couldn't claim to know her any better than he knows Trish.]
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Vergil stops himself before he goes on to say what he knows he was going to around that time and it has him slow in his steps β take another swig of his drink even. He just so happens to be near the bathroom when doing so and he stares into it for a long moment, silent, before he looks back over to the other son of Sparda there on the couch. )
Yeah, well. I'm a friendly sort of guy, what can I say?
( Lazy shrug of his shoulders, he wanders about a little more before he goes around behind the little divider Vergil bothered to setup there to give them all some privacy and... drops himself down to his brother's bed with an oof. Yeah. He's absolutely sprawling himself out on it with his drink. )
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[Vergil looks down at the book in his lap fishing for something to say, but comes up short. He folds his arms uncomfortably before slowly looking back up towards the balcony again. The silence stretches on for a moment or two longer before Vergil finally breaks it with a huff that almost borders on a laugh.]
You know, [he says, looking over in the direction of his bed,] I don't even know where my Relic is anymore. I left it in the nightstand, but it wasn't there when I looked after everything returned to normal.
cw: talk of death
Do you think dadβs dead?
( He realizes itβs a bit of a one-eighty swerve from what theyβd been talking about but, he adds: )
Nero asked me about him. I didnβt really know what to say.
( Huff on his lips, he looks to his bottle again. )
I mean heβd have to be, right? Unless heβs just that much of an asshole to ditch his family.
cw: talk of death, child abandonment, attempted child murder
[Swallowing thickly, he answers quietly and softly,] Yes.
[Vergil doesn't know if he should say more or not. He wishes he could see Dante now to gauge it better, but... Then again, would Dante even listen to him regardless of his mood? Any other time the matter of Sparda comes up, Dante is quick to dismiss what Vergil has to say. Vergil's not stupid. He knows Dante thinks it is nothing but blind hero worship, but that's not it for Vergil. He could never blindly hero worship anyone, not even their father. Vergil knows their father was strong. And he loved them and their mother more than anything in the world. But Vergil also knows he wasn't there when they needed him. Something took him away from them. Vergil's certain their mother knew why he left even if she never told Vergil and Dante. Why else would she never speak anything of him as being anything less than the noble knight of his legend when she could have just as easily not said anything at all? Whatever her feelings about the chance he might not return or whatever heartbreak and grief she felt when he did not, she clearly understood their father's reason for leaving and implicitly condoned it one way or another.]
I know you hate him, Dante, but he... [Vergil looks away from the divider towards the Yamato where Vergil left it propped near the front door. Speak father, speak to your little boy, or else I shall be lost. Vergil continues, although not with exactly what he was about to say.] If he was alive, he would have returned to us.
[And to his mother brought, who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale, her little boy weeping sought.]
[Eva would still be alive. They would not have been separated, believing the other to have succumbed to the same attack that claimed their mother's life. Perhaps Vergil could have grown to be kinder, gentler than he is now. Dante would have fewer reasons to drink and be less insistent on handling matters on his own. Brothers would not be at great odds with one another, locked in battle after battle to the death. Nero would have grown up with a father. So much would and could be different if Sparda lived and they were together again.]
Or we would have found a trace of him by now.
[Assuming that Dante's most unkind, ungenerous thoughts of Sparda were true, and he had simply just not been there, abandoning them thoughtlessly. Somewhere in all of Vergil's searching for claiming his power would have proven some evidence he was still alive, somewhere out there. Surely he would have intervened with Temen-ni-gru being raised once more if not to stop his sons from their contests of strength then at least to protect his beloved humanity from the consequences of reopening the portal that he sealed. If something as extreme as that could not stir him to action, Vergil's only conclusion is, as it has been for years upon years, that their father is dead.]
cw: continued mentions of death, depression, childhood trauma
What would he think if he could see them now? What would their mother think if she could see them together like this? It's a depressing thought, more concerning her and, how like he'd said to Nero, she had deserved so much better than the hand the cards had dealt her that day. Maybe if he hadn't been such a little brat to his brother, Vergil wouldn't have run off to get away from his annoying little brother and she wouldn't have left to go look for him... she wouldn't have been killed and he wouldn't continuously have nightmares of her screams over the years while he hid, trembling and scared in a closet. That's his fault and he carries that with him every day.
But he should have been there. Sparda should have been there and he's never quite forgiven their old man for just leaving them when he was supposed to protect them. They're his sons β they carry his demonic blood in their veins, but they were kids at the time and there was too many of them. Yet no matter how many times he tries to tell himself that, he still can't help but feel the guilt for what had happened all because he wanted his brother's attention. He shouldn't feel that. Sparda should, for not being there for them. But how's a guy or demon supposed to feel that if he was already dead at the time?
He stares to the bottle there resting at his leg β listens to Vergil's thoughts on whether or not their father might somehow still be alive after all this time, and he huffs before he brings the bottle up to his lips, pausing. )
So much for being the legendary dark knight, huh? Wonder what punk demon took him out.
( Sparda had disappeared before Mundus struck. That was the whole reason why Mundus struck. The demon had caught wind of Sparda's sudden disappearance and saw it as an opportune moment to send his lackeys after the dark knight's family. Had it been Mundus who had finally exacted his revenge of their old man, the demon would have gloated about it, he's for damn sure about that.
There's the possibility maybe he'd ended up trapped somewhere. Portals to the underworld are a dime a dozen if you know how to open them and Sparda was known to open and close a few in his time. But Vergil's right. If that were the case, they would have heard something about that, he figures. Rumors or legends of him stepping into some portal somewhere at some point. He doesn't go searching the world for traces of his old man, but. He keeps an ear to the ground for anything pertaining to him. He always has and he's always come up with next to nothing but stories he'd already heard before. The Order of the Sword had really been the closest thing to anything "new" regarding him, even if that had more been a trap for him than anything else.
He takes a long swig of his drink β licks over his lips as he rests it against his leg again and he falls silent as pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes falling shut. )
I shouldn't have bothered you that day... ( The words are slow and soft to leave him, as if he's unsure if he should even say them to begin with, but. Damn that kid of Vergil's. ) ...mom went looking for you because I wouldn't leave you alone. ( Again, there's a stretch of silence and he lets go a shaky breath as he his hand drops away from his face. ) That's my fault. You leaving, mom looking for you... that's my fault.
( And so it all goes back to whether or not Vergil would really want his brother to live with him again. Why he'd been so unsure when the offer was made. Live your life here where he doesn't have to be a thorn in his side like back then. )
cw: mentions of death & complicated bereavement
[What Dante says next...]
[Vergil looks to the divider, eyes wide in their confusion. Although Dante does not immediately claim responsibility for what happened, Vergil can hear the conclusion already in those first few slow words. Vergil swallows thickly as he swings his legs back down to the floor, sliding Paradise Lost from his lap to the cushion beside him. Unsteadily, Vergil rises to his feet in that additional stretch of silence, as without his awareness, he holds his next breath until Dante speaks again. Vergil feels almost immediately winded, Dante's words striking at him like a firm punch to his gut. His exhale is thin and weak, but still he steps forward.]
[Nothing Dante says sounds unfamiliar to him. How many nights after that day had Vergil laid awake believing that if he had just been a little bit stronger, a little bit faster, his mother and brother would still be alive? How often did he think that if he had just tolerated Dante's nonsense a little better, been a kinder brother to him, he would not find himself alone? Vergil is all too familiar with that guilt, that shame, and that self-loathing at a perceived flaw being the source of all the harm and misery that has followed him ever since. It drove Vergil to never experience that feeling of helplessness again. He sought more and more power to protect himself, to never allow himself that dependency upon another person to save him whenever he might need it. And so that he would never feel that grief again either.]
[But even in recognizing the sentiment Dante expresses... Vergil does not understand hearing it come from Dante. His brother makes light of so many things, brushing them aside and choosing to deal with life as it comes, not as he predicts it might. He's affable and kind in ways that Vergil never has been, and he surrounds himself with people who care for him. He's had a place to call home and people to fill his life with for decades. Barring the vitriol reserved for Sparda, Vergil has never once heard his brother speak of that day, and certainly not on his perceived role in it.]
[Had Vergil's decisions that day really...?]
[Vergil sits on the edge of the bed nearest to Dante. Taking it by the neck, he plucks the bottle away from his brother and sets it on the nightstand. Vergil looks at it where it sits for a moment or two before he looks at his brother. The look in Vergil's eyes is a hard one, but it is not because he carries any sort of anger towards Dante in this moment, nor is his intent to push Dante to either cease some annoying behavior or go away if he's unable to help himself. Rather instead, that furrow in his brow is the only thing keeping the tears that have formed in the edges of his vision, blurring the sight of Dante for Vergil, from falling as every breath he draws now feels like it might shake them loose. Leaning forward, Vergil pulls Dante towards himself in a tight embrace. Unlike the hug he offered Dante in the woods, nothing about this one feels tenuous. It is not a brief expression of some affection, some appreciation for his brother that is otherwise hard for Vergil to speak. It's firmer than that. Protective in the way one of Vergil's hands comes to cradle the back of his brother's head while the other at his back fists itself in the fabric of his coat.]
It wasn't your fault. [Vergil doesn't bother with offering the rationalizations for why it was not Dante's fault. He knows well enough himself firsthand how little that matters, how little that changes. Hell, Vergil would even be willing to bet that him declaring it not to be Dante's fault or responsibility will change nothing. But he says it anyway because his brother is hurting, and he is carrying a weight that should not be his to carry alone.] It was never your fault.
[A hand reaches out to Vergil in the dark as he falls. In reality, he rejected it, slashing across his brother's hand to prevent any grip from forming on any part of him. But in his dreams, Vergil desperately reaches back for it. He tries again and again each dream, but the ground gives way beneath him too quickly. His hand simply passes through as though he were little more than a spirit. Or something pulls him away before his grip can be firm enough. But again and again, he is never able to take Dante's hand.]
[Neither of them can undo the past. The past, no matter how much they may wish it were otherwise, is immutable. But they have now. They have tomorrow.]
[Vergil holds his brother a little tighter. He cannot bring himself to say the words right now, but with each pulse of his own heart, he promises Dante again and again.]
[I will never leave you alone again, brother.]
cw: still mentions of depression and survivor's guilt
Very much making his way over to him there on the bed.
When his brother goes and takes the bottle from him, he lets him β eyes him for a moment, only to see it set aside; he never did peg Vergil for much of a drinker. He doesn't know what he expects or what Vergil is likely to say, if anything at all to that. He'd made his smartass comment about their father just moments prior to his own admission to his guilt surrounding their mother and that day, so it would almost be remiss for him to not say something about that. Big brother who respects their father and all.
But there's nothing to come concerning their father or the comment he'd made. Not even a look of disdain there in matching blue eyes when he lifts his gaze up to meet his brother's. Instead, there's something else there in the hardness of them β something that confuses him for a moment... and then he's being pulled into an embrace and held in a way he hasn't been held in a very, very long time.
He sits there, dumbfounded, but. Like the words he'd spilled before regarding that day and his guilt, he finds himself doing something he's not sure why he is and, reaches up to grasp at the back of Vergil's clothing with a hand. Tight. As if scared to let go and have this all be a dream he's dreamt a hundred or so times before.
When the words come, he's left there in silence β left in the tight embrace his brother keeps him within and he sits there with those words, with the reassurance his brother tries to give him. He drops his head β presses his face down to Vergil's shoulder and just... stays like that, hand still holding at his brother's back. Reminiscent of days when they were children and he'd come sidle up to his brother after having a bad dream or the thunder being a bit too loud for him. Hiding beneath the sheets and within his brother's arms, knowing he was safe there. Knowing he wouldn't let anything hurt him.
Except he is hurt β has been hurting for years and Vergil wasn't there to protect him. Wasn't there to reassure him that things would be ok. That he would be ok. It's why he's not. Ok. Because he'd lost his other half that day years ago due to his driving him away with refusing to let him be for a little while. He'd lost him that day. Lost him when they'd found each other again and, like his books, he chose the Underworld over wanting to be with him. Lost him to the demon fuck Mundus who had stripped his brother of everything he ever was and made him a puppet. A puppet he had to put down and, again, had to watch leave him because of his actions.
He can't let him know how much it hurts. Can't let him know the number of nights he'd spend on the floor instead of on the couch. Laying there. Bottle empty. Staring across the room with tears in his eyes and replaying over and over and over again how he should have done things differently. How he should have tried harder or searched for him when he'd fallen into the Underworld.
So when he finally finds it within him to speak, it's soft β pathetic almost, as if he were a child again, tucked in against his big brother beneath the sheets of their bed. )
I missed you.
cw: child death mention, grief
[But that was before everything that came to follow.]
[It feels to Vergil that Dante should not miss him. Not particularly. Not acutely. Not to any great measure beyond an old loss that one has had time to sit and come to terms with. The odds that they have been at with one another, the resolve that Dante had to find within himself to do whatever it took to stop Vergil... Vergil would have thought somewhere amid all that, it would have burned it out of Dante. That there could be no more love, no grace, no hope, nothing left for Vergil but resentment and anger at what Vergil pushed Dante to do again and again. He was prepared that day atop the Qliphoth, wasn't he? To end it. Once and for all. For there to be no more chances, no more opportunities for Vergil to cause mayhem in all the ways he had before. That's all it should have been by then.]
[He squeezes his eyes shut, but it's already too late. The tears slip from his eyes, falling the short distance to Dante's shoulder. The first in years. Decades, really...]
I missed you, too.
[Not in the same ways. Their positions and perspectives on their conflict with one another have always been different. And there had been that stretch of years when Mundus carved and rent every trace of what made Vergil who he is until there was nothing but a mindless, hollow shell left behind. But the words are true. The ache of years lost and wasted still resonates beneath them all the same.]
[Vergil loosens his hold and sits back.]
Look at me. [He holds his brother's face in one hand while the other rests at his shoulder, waiting until he has Dante's eyes before he continues.] We are in this together. Not as the sons of Sparda, but as Dante and Vergil.
[As brothers. As they always should have been.]
Nothing is going to get in the way of that, Dante. [Vergil shakes his head slightly as he gives a squeeze to Dante's shoulder.] Not anymore.
cw: mentions of grief
This is different. So different from anything they've ever said or done with one another to the point where some part of him almost wants to fiddle and fidget away from it all. He doesn't β it takes everything within him to not. To keep the sass and sarcasm from spilling out of him β to keep himself from twisting away and reaching for his bottle with a lazy little smile on his lips. All things that feel kneejerk for him to do in response to feeling this exposed and this vulnerable. But he doesn't, even if some part of him so very badly wants to, he doesn't because it doesn't feel right to do. Not when Vergil is here with him like this. Not when he's saying what he is, looking to him with such conviction in those eyes that are far from the glassy blue he'd come to be so familiar with during so many of their interactions with one another in the past.
Those words twist something up within him β have him feel a plethora of emotions that threaten to drown him right then and there on the bed. Words that almost feel too late, in a way. That he wishes had been said and realized so many years ago. They dredge up moments from their childhood β of a young Dante dropped to his knees, whining after his brother taking his leave back to the house after he'd finished playing with him. Finished too soon, in young Dante's opinion, staring down to the ground with a pout on his lips. But Vergil would come back β would grab his little brother by the wrist and drag him along with him, mumbling how they need to stick together and to stop dragging his feet as he goes. Together. A word that punches the youngest son of Sparda right in the center of his chest and sends cracks of heartache throughout his entire being.
That's how they should have been. Together. That's all he ever wanted. To be together with his brother. Maybe it was too much for Vergil to want β maybe he was too much at that age for his brother to want together as he did, but that feeling never stopped for him. No matter how often they would end up at odds with one another or he would have to strike his big brother down. He always wanted them to be together.
He breaks his silence with a puff of laughter from his lips, soft and hollow without any real amusement in it, and he ducks his head down some, licking over his lips as he stares to Vergil's vest. )
Didn't know you were such a sap, bro.
( Lips quirk into a half-smile but his eyes do anything but. He can feel those emotions swimming around within them, threatening to spill in ways he won't be able to hold back. So he takes a second β sinks his teeth so bloody hard down into his bottom lip before he finally looks up to his brother, eyes shining with the threat of that dam he's holding together to break. )
Why didn't you take my hand? ( Even as he asks, his voice is soft, nearly breathless. ) I reached for you, Iβ ( Sucking in a breath, he curls a hand into a fist and thumps it square in the center of Vergil's chest. It lacks any real punch to it, but. It's still firm and it stays there as he stares to it. ) Why didn't you take my hand?
( You left me alone, he can't bring himself to say. )
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[Dante doesn't leave him in the dark for long on that matter. His voice is thin and weak in a way Vergil's never heard before. Not even when Dante bit back tears and repeatedly insisted he wasn't about to cry because he hadn't cried when he got those bumps and scrapes while nearly crushing the bones in Vergil's hand while their mother cleaned up them up had he sounded so small and desperate. It's antithetical to who Dante is, as Vergil knows him to be. The light fist to Vergil's chest does nothing to help, but Vergil supposes it's not meant to do anything more than distract from what they both know to be true: Vergil cannot say anything that will do anything to ease this hurt. Whatever he says will only make it worse. It does not matter if he speaks the truth, if he deflects, or if he outright lies. Even silence shall not bring Dante relief.]
[Beneath Dante's fist, Vergil's heart pounds. It pounds and pounds and pounds so loudly in Vergil's head, it's all he can really hear as he looks at his brother, futilely wishing that he had something he could offer, something that could ease the pain from the ugly reality. But he has nothing. Nothing that can make it better. Vergil's hand flies up from his lap to grip tightly at Dante's fist in a silent desperation as he shakes his head slightly. For a moment, it seems likely that's all there is to be. Silence. But Vergil tries to works his jaw, and his lips part for a moment in an aborted attempt to speak until he finally manages to push something out.]
...I'm sorry, Dante. Iβ... [His voice cracks, and he stops himself. He swallows thickly, and softly repeats his apology.] I'm so sorry...
[He isn't trying to avoid the question in the end. If Dante were to ask again, he would acquiesce. And he would try, to the best of his ability, to explain his reasonsβboth what he believed at the time and what he knows to be true nowβfor not taking Dante's hand that day. But he knows the reasons aren't good enough. Nothing ever could be a good enough reason for why he did what he did. Not in Dante's eyes. Hell, he isn't even certain they're good enough in his own now with the benefit of hindsight being what it is.]
[He wants to cast his gaze aside. The shame and guilt welling up within him sets every nerve-ending in his body to pull on that instinct, but he stays exactly as he is.]
[He owes Dante that much. Well... He owes him more than that. Far, far more than that. But Dante does not deserve cowardice from him right now.]
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And then, it comes out. Spilling from him in an eruption of fiery sorrow. )
It was supposed to be you and me. I would have fought with you. I would have helped you take down that bastard and what he did to mom. To us. That's how it was supposed to be. You and me. Together. Not me having to put you down. Not me having to be the only one left to chase. You and me.
( He feels like he's a kid again. Swinging his wooden sword around and yelling at his brother for how unfair it is that he won't play with him. Trying to list all the reasons why he should and hoping that one of them might get through to him. It's selfish of him to do. Selfish of him to say. But he does. Just like back then. In his upset.
There's a sudden spike in demonic energy from him then and he thumps that fist at Vergil's chest again, a little harder than the last time, grinding his teeth against each other as eyes flash with red and fire. It takes everything within him to reel back the anger he can feel running through his veins β making the air around them grow hot with the familiar threat of his demonic skin to spill over human flesh and take control in the moment.
The devil within him snarls at its twin beneath flesh and bone but... he relents. The fire dims. Doesn't give in. Hangs his head there with that fist pressing firm against Vergil's chest, and then he trembles some. Not out of anger, not out of fear that Vergil might pull away, but out of an uncontrollable sadness that still sits there deep within him, like his devil. One he can taste with the blood on his tongue. When he speaks, it's after he takes a second to swallow β after he crumples forward and presses himself against his brother. )
I would have given anything to have you back with me.
( Almost. To follow in his big brother's footsteps... he couldn't. He knows he couldn't. No matter how much some part of him wanted to. No matter how much he missed him. No matter how he loved him. He couldn't walk the path Vergil had chosen.
Shoulders slumping, fingers go limp and unfurl from the fist he'd so tightly held. )
Please don't leave again. I'm right here. I've always been right here, Vergil.
( With his hand out for him to take. )
cw: allusion to alcoholism
[He starts a little when Dante presses against him, flinching as though it were a sudden strike despite it being nothing of the sort. Bringing his eyes back into focus, Vergil looks down at his little brother. His tired, sad, lonely, scared little brother. The numbness has not fully left Vergil, but he's cognizant of how heavy Dante feels against him now as he goes limp. He forces himself to remain upright, and subsequently keep Dante the same, but he feels frozen to the spot where he sits. Somehow, Vergil's hands find their way to Dante's upper arms, squeezing them tighter than he necessarily means to hold onto them.]
[Part of him, he would be ashamed to admit, wants to push Dante away. It is not the child that always resented and attempted to shirk his responsibilities to his brother that wants to do it, however. It's a part ruled by guilt and shame, not anger and resentment. Vergil was supposed to take care of Dante. He was supposed to look after him, and keep him out of trouble. He was supposed to protect him from harm both real and imaginary. And yet, he's only ever really managed to do the opposite. It is one thing, Vergil finds, to recognize his shortcomings and failures as a brother. He is not unaware that he has failed Dante time and time again, and that it was always his decision to run from his brother from they were children until they found one another at the cusp of their adulthood. It was still his decision as V to lie and obfuscate the truth to his brother when asking for help because he was too afraid of what Dante might do if he knew with no exclusivity to the worst outcome in that scenario. It is another to feel them made manifest like this. To feel what happens when someone loves him so fiercely that they've dashed themselves upon the rocks again and again and again in what some might consider a fit of madness in believing that something different might happen. If perhaps just this time...]
[There is no explanation that will ever seem reasonable for his decisions. That much remains true. But Vergil realizes now the reason he didn't provide one isn't just because he was afraid of inciting his brother's anger in making it worse. No, he was perhaps more afraid of Dante's empathy. That even as it killed him to know that Vergil deluded himself into thinking he was choosing power above all else to protect himself when in reality it was simply because he was so goddamn afraid... That Dante could offer any semblance of understanding or forgiveness anywhere amid whatever else it might spark in Dante would certainly be his undoing.]
You've always been such a crybaby...
[Vergil's voice is soft and gentle, not at all truly chiding Dante or even dismissing his feelings here and now. If anything, it's the exact opposite as Vergil comes to wrap his arms around Dante just as before with one hand at his back and the other cradling his head.]
[There is nothing Vergil can do about the past. No explanation makes it reasonable. No apology undoes the harm he's inflicted. The regrets he holds over his decisions are simply ones that he will have to carry with him until his dying breath just as Dante has learned to walk with the wounds and scars he carries. The only thing he can do, the only thing they can do now is stay on this path together now that they're on it with one another again.]
[So, it is more seriously that he promises,]
I'm not going anywhere, Dante. I'm done running away. My place is with you.
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So he remains there against his brother β listens to the gentle reassurances he offers him with hands to his head and back. Protective. Like when they were kids. He's quiet, like back then. Searches for the beat of his brother's heart and sinks into the gentle rise and fall of his chest with every slow breath. Just like back then. A forgotten comfort that's become so familiar again.
There's conviction in those words. He can hear it, despite the gentleness in which he gives them, and he knows his brother is capable of following through with his word when he gives it β when he sets his mind to it and decides that's simply how it's going to be. He knows that he means it and that he intends to see it through, but. To simply forget the years of guilt and failures he's carried with him... the heartache and anger and depression he tends to wade through because of how broken he feels inside... gentle reassurances are not enough to heal those scars that still very much bleed for him.
But it's a start, at least.
There's a breath on his lips then β soft. Blue eyes having fallen shut as he lays there against Vergil without any signs of intending to move. He's still cooling down β still making sure his devil is in check and quiet behind warm flesh before he even thinks to gently let his eyes flutter open, staring across the room from where he's lazing against his brother. )
You promise?
( You promise? He remembers asking his brother when they were kids and he'd been lazing against him much like this beneath the sheets of their bed, scared from the nightmares he'd had and Vergil reassuring him that nothing would happen to him β that he would keep him safe while he closes his eyes. )
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[Two words spoken without hesitation. Vergil is not a fool, and knows the weight of that promise, and that it goes far deeper than his promises as a child to not let the monsters in the closet get to his little brother. The history that lays between them is messier, uglier, and far more unkind than whatever beast Dante's overactive imagination conjured in his sleep when they were little. But unlike the battles that came before, Vergil knows this will be something worth fighting for. All that he's done to claw and scrape his way out of his lowest point simply cannot be for nothing.]
So, no more talk of living my life as though you are not part of it. Do you understand me? I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. I won't let you.
[He does not say it aloud, not so directly, but Vergil knows he cannot do this without Dante. Undoubtedly, Vergil has come a long way on his own, but what has been presented to Vergil in this place has not truly pushed nor challenged him in ways he knows he will be with Dante and Nero both. There is so much farther he could have gone, he will go with the pair of them, and with Dante especially.]
[For all their differences and the hardships and lost time, Dante remains the person who knows Vergil best. Who understands him when Vergil hasn't even said a word, and predicts what he will do before he's even thought to do it. He has also always driven Vergil to be better, stronger. Most often, it has been out of an unspoken competition, a need to be the superior of the two that comes with being the eldest. But there have been times where that was not the case. When they were little and Vergil was capable of occasionally making the better choices to protect Dante rather than push him away. For all his complaints of how annoying Dante was, he did not want Dante to turn to anyone else for protection and reassurances.]
[Now? Vergil knows he has more or less lost that responsibility. Some of that a result of his choices, and some of that simply being the natural consequence of time continuing to march forward as Dante grew up. So, Vergil does not seek that. But he would like to be the person Dante knows he can rely upon. That when he needs Vergil, he will be there. Not gone. Not taken. Not far beyond his reach. There. He would like for there to be more than just their hurt and grief and trauma as something shared between them, that makes them know their bond is truly unbreakable and real.]
You know I hate repeating myself, but I will make an exception to get through that thick skull of yours. [Vergil makes a fist and lightly bumps it on the crown of Dante's head, not remotely hard enough for it to hurt.] I will say it as many times as you need me to that I'm not going anywhere.
[He frames it lightly, stepping around their history in a way that he believes will feel more comfortable for Dante than what comes naturally to Vergil to avoid digging further at the vulnerability Dante has displayed here, but he means it. As many times as Dante needs to be told, Vergil will make the promise again and again and again.]
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Bleed onto a devil beneath the skin which he still doesn't entirely admit to either.
So he blows out a sigh at the gentle bop to his head β at the words his brother offers him for reassurance there and in the silence he lets follow those words, he turns his head some then, cheek pressing to Vergil's chest. )
Pass me the bottle.
( The one Vergil had taken from him and set aside to sit and have this conversation together. )
cw: allusion to alcoholism
[Vergil hesitates to reach for the bottle on Dante's behalf. He doesn't have any desire to tacitly endorse Dante's drinking habits, and he sees no other possible interpretation for the action. (He couldn't even really claim to be turning a blind eye given a more active participation being requested of him.) But neither does he have a desire for an argument with Dante. Or perhaps not an argument, but bitter words that run the distinct risk of evolving into something angrier. Not when it seems the end result shall be the same. Dante will drink whether or not Vergil passes him the bottle.]
[Vergil's eyes go to the alcohol on the nightstand before he nudges Dante to sit up. Once Dante is supporting more of his weight instead of resting it so heavily against Vergil, the elder son of Sparda reaches and picks up the bottle. He does not hand it to Dante right away, however, staring at it in his hand for a moment. No small part of him wants to make off with it. Smash it. Pour it down the drain. Partially because he believes it's better for Dante, and partially because it becomes far too unsettling in its clarity that Vergil is a significant reason why his brother drinks. But just as it will make no difference if he passes it to him or not, neither will some form of destruction of the bottle. Dante will still drink.]
[Wordlessly, Vergil holds the bottle out toward Dante for him to take, his hold on him now loosening to allow him to sit up all the way to drink. He does not look at his little brother, more acutely aware of that wedge between them of shame and guilt and anger and sadness. Vergil held no delusions about the outcome of such a talk as the one they just had, but he wantedβ...]
[It doesn't matter. It just does not matter. His fingers ghost through as they always do or he simply falls short. The end result feels so much the same.]
[He lets it be for today. While Vergil refuses to give up altogether, he knows there's little point in trying any further today. It will just make the apartment feel too small, and promises feel more fragile than they really are. Privately, he hates it. He hates how close Dante is to him now while feeling far beyond his reach. But Vergil shores everything up and steels himself, schooling his expression as he follows Dante's lead in leaving the conversation where it is.]
What do you want for dinner?
cw: gentle mentions of alcoholism
To his surprise, he's given the bottle β a little more upright now β and he offers his brother a lazy albeit incredibly faint smile as fingers brush over Vergil's in his taking the bottle back. Without much for hesitation, he takes a swig, head knocked back some as he does, licking over his lips with a pleased little ah after. Already he can feel it chasing away the sorrow, the heartache, the anger that flows through his blood, and he settles back into something more mellowed out despite how incredibly unhealthy chasing it all away with a drink can be.
Whatever. It's worked thus far.
Pulling the bottle away from his lips, he rests it there against his leg, eyes glazed over some before he's blinking it away and he glances over to his brother there at the question posed. Taking a moment, he tilts his head. Contemplates that. Then smiles brightly despite the tiredness there in his expression. Because of course he always puts on a show. )
How mad are you gonna be if I say pizza?
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If you weren't holding an open bottle on my bed, I would have pushed you before you could even finish that question, [he says, withdrawing his remaining arm around Dante so that he can stand up. Tiredness from Dante is to be expected, but the smile on his face and his quickness to follow the change in subject signals to Vergil it's as good as time as any for him to return to his own space.] But fine. We can do pizza again tonight.
I owe you for the books, anyway. [Seeing as how the strawberries lasted all of five minutes... Vergil shakes his head a little as he steps away to return to his book on the couch.] Do yourself a favor and don't try to lie to me about where they came from, or I'm making Greek salads tonight instead.
[Truly no good deed goes unpunished.]
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Vergil moves β intends to separate them and return to his book[s] which he matter-of-factly accuses the youngest son of Sparda of being responsible for. Despite the accusation being correct, he still won't admit to it. Instead, he reaches out before the elder son can slip away too far from him β fingers grasping at Vergil's wrist and he stares down to the floor. Quiet. Fingers of his other hand holding to the neck of the bottle resting there against his leg. )
The mind is it's own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
( A line from Vergil's dear Paradise Lost and one which, from how he'd been able to recite it so effortlessly and without the need for second thought, he's read a number of times before. He can relate to in ways he wishes he didn't.
Those fingers there at his brother's wrist grip tightly β a refusal to let him go just yet and he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. )
I read them all. A few times. Can't say they were anything I'd call a favorite of mine. But it was a way to be close to you. To fill the silence of your absence. Sometimes I could hear your voice when I did. Like you were right there. Reading out loud to me. Trying to bore me to death. Sometimes you did.
( Letting fingers slip from Vergil's wrist, they drop down to grip his brother's fingers instead, holding to them still tightly. )
I'm holding you to your word. ( I'm not going anywhere. ) I need you here. I've always needed you.
cw: references to alcoholism and enslavement
[He still does not admit to being the one to have secured these copies for Vergil, but he doesn't need to in order for it to be proven fact to Vergil. Not any more than he needs to recite lines from one of them for that matter. The gift itself would have been enough on its own, the specific editions reflecting his bookshelf from their childhood. What would truly drive it home were it still somehow unclear is the bittersweet means of staying connected to Vergil when he was gone. It lands more bitter than sweet to Vergil in this moment, having only just pushed everything as far from himself as he could to leave the conversation be. But that feels par for the course for the two of them wherein they begin to align only to find it rapidly not the case. Vergil pushes too hard. Dante plays too much. One or both of them falls out of step with the brief tandem, and it's not long after that at least one of them handles it poorly.]
[He tries not to be the one who does that now as he feels Dante's grip shift to his fingers as he wonders just how long he is to be a spectre to his brother and not the flesh and blood that he is here and now? He says he will hold Vergil to his word, and says that he needs him, but how hard it is not to feel it is all too little, too late when Dante must seek the bottle first. Their past is a complicated one, of course. Vergil is not without his empathy for the difficulty he knows Dante must face in trying to relinquish the past. But it seems so hard to have him not so largely in the past now that it feels almost insurmountable.]
[Dante's grip is tight, but Vergil is able to wriggle his fingers enough that he can adjust his hand within to hold his brother's hand in return. Vergil says nothing as he continues to stand there. Not aloud. His hold on Dante's hand, however, is perhaps the tightest he's ever held it in all their lives. Vergil's grip in return likely borders on painful, almost as though it were their shared grip alone that separated the line between one fate and another for him. A slight lessening of their grip on the other, and that would be it. Vergil says nothing with his own words or borrowed ones, not wanting to begin the conversation anew even as Dante seems to spark it back into life. But he grips Dante's hand against fears and insecurities and the grief and loneliness that have plagued Vergil for the majority of his lifeβthe parts of his life that were his own and not stolen from himβand he hopes Dante understands.]
cw: gentle demonic transformation
Scales roll over the back of his hand β stretch out to his fingers where claws appear and he keep his hold there on his brother's hand, some touching along the sides of his face. It's only a partial, if that, transformation β of his devil reaching out to its twin as much as he himself does to his brother. Because they share that, too. Red and blue. Fire and ice. Two devils who shared a womb together within a human mother from the moment they'd both been conceived with a mix of demonic and human blood. So different from any other demon they had ever come across. No one else like them. Not since Nero and even then, the things they have shared together, the way they have been in each other's life from the very instant they came into existence only to be ripped apart from one another at such a young age... for as much as Dante reaches out for his brother, so, too, does his devil reach out for its other half.
He swallows thickly β somehow feels even more vulnerable in this partial state. Knowing how Vergil's always felt about their demonic lineage and how he's viewed his little brother as weak for rejecting it orβnot allowing himself to fully accept or even love that part of himself with pride as Vergil always has. Even now, as he sits there, he's still very much human despite the demonic touches visible on him. But for as much as he needs his brother, so does his devil need its other half. When he speaks, it's with a slightly deeper tone β fangs there in his mouth. )
Together.
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[It is odd to see his brother mostly human but traces of the devil still prominent regardless of how few they may be compared to his human features. For Dante, his demonic heritage is a tool. It is one he resents almost as much as he resents their father, but it is a tool for him nonetheless. There is, however, no connection between Dante and that part of himself beyond that. It remains an insurmountable divide that, in a strange way, reflects the divide between brothers as well. Dante's resentments just seem to run too deep, and it's too difficult for Vergil to see it from his brother's perspective. The latter, however, seems far easier to mend and close to Vergil than the former. And the divide between brothers is not exactly anything Vergil would claim to be an easy task in the first place.]
[Still, Dante is here, and he reaches for his brother in more ways than just one. It counts for something.]
[The blue of Vergil's eyes brightens to a cyan rather than their softer grey-blue, his sclera darkening with the rise of his own demonic energy. It's neither the sharp spike of heated emotion from Dante a moment ago, nor is it the gradual rise. Instead, it's almost akin to the devil within Vergil stepping forward, as though it has always been there and only with attention being drawn to it does it step forward now. Vergil matches his brother in partial transformation, but to some extent it is more complete. His is not as much of a patchwork of scales and claws. Instead, from the elbow down, Vergil's arm and hand have transformed completely and glow with the same cyan of his eyes while grey scales form along his hairline and cheeks as well as along the sides and back of his neck.]
Together, [he says with a nod.]
[They have been in opposition to one another for far longer than they have not. And there is still some small instinct there for it even now. It would seem impossible not for there to be given how often it is they've clashed with one another, using their demonic powers and forms to wound and fight to bitter ends against one another. But the instinct is small and it is quiet, and there is no power struggle that lies between them now that would amplify it. In this moment, as devils and as men, they are merely brothers. Twins who balk at the thought of being alike and yet still reflect both the worst and best parts of one another, and need one another for that reason.]
[From now on, when one reaches for the other, he will be there. As hard as it may be to reach for or take hold after all their various hurts and wrongs, they will find a way to do it.]
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Bright red eyes watch the other devil's face β quiet in the way his gaze sweeps over his brother's arm and the power he can feel gently radiating off him. It's familiar enough β one he's met time and time again when facing his brother. It simply feels different than usual given the circumstances... given the fact that they are not at each other's throats. To be wearing his demonic skin as he is, even just barely as he is, it has him feel some sort of way about it and with the way Vergil looks to him, he doesn't hold it for very long. Because with Dante, it's always a matter of holding it β controlling it rather than simply letting it be.
Fire gently rolls over him and the scales disappear from his face and hand, as do the claws and the red burning there in his eyes. He ducks his head some β lets himself take a breath, then smiles lazily up to his brother before he's letting his hand slip away from him. )
You're a sap. Anyone ever tell you that?
( A bit of lightheartedness so as to go back to feeling like himself and tuck the devil away again. )
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You're one to talk being as big of a crybaby as you are.
[Reaching over, Vergil places his hand on top of Dante's head. He musses that mop of white and gray and only takes his hand back after he's given a light, playful shove to Dante's head to push it down again.]
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Head shoved down, he leans off the bed some and snaps his teeth a few times, pretending to bite at his dear big brother before he flops back against the bed, resting back on his hands with a heavy sigh. )
Youβre lucky Iβm too tired to tackle your ass to the ground and make you say uncle.
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[He fully anticipates Dante will just put his leg back up the moment he's on the other side of the divider, but still. Vergil sleeps there. Occasionally Nero does, too. He doesn't want dirty boots on his blankets, and things have returned to a place where he can more comfortably scold Dante for it.]
[Not that Vergil says anything about it one way or another when he returns with his book and settles in beside Dante until he needs to get up and get dinner squared away before Nero gets home, accommodating Dante when his little brother inevitably begins to restlessly sprawl and flops onto him, limbs akimbo as always.]
Early November
For all that, Mizu doesn't deliberately wake Vergil up or leave the bed. Instead she cannot help but be reminded of the only other time she's shared a bed. Those were not mornings but evenings and nights. Quiet musings of conversations when her mother slept nearby. In time, Mizu shared parts of herself Vergil has mostly known from the beginning. That's the only way she can lay there and trust that he will stay for any length of time. A poisoned part of her mind wants to suggest Vergil might not be so different, should Mizu beat him, but Mizu remembers the way Vergil kissed her next to the pool when she pinned him to the ground. He would not leave because she beat him in sparring. If that signals anyone to leave, it's her.
Mizu put Mikio out of her mind since she left their home. She'd set him behind her until Fowler's damn monkey drugged her. It came pouring back then, and it's only become more insistent since she and Vergilβ well, to be fair, it makes some sense that it would come to mind. Her only prior romantic experience. She'd rather it didn't, and Mizu wonders if speaking about it would make it lose its power. It could, or it could make it worse.
It's part of everything. It's part of her everything. So long as Mizu plans to live by that, it will come up. It already has because she's lying next to Vergil and instead of thinking solely of him, another man comes to mind. Unbidden. Unwanted. Restlessly, she shifts and adjusts to pull Vergil closer, like that could be enough to push Mikio's memory away.
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With Mizu, it's almost strange how it can all at once feel the same and yet so completely different. Unlike in his apartment, Vergil settles down at the same time as the other person in the cabin rather than simply going about his business quietly until he intends to sleep as well. Sometimes they make love whether it be a sudden fit of passion, a playful escalation of affections, or a slow build of intimacy wherein there's no rush in exploring every inch of the other all over again. Other times they lie awake with one another, speaking quietly in the dark as though there were the chance of prying ears. But also, it's sometimes perfectly content and companionable silence that fills the room as they curl up with one another beneath the blankets. Often it is Vergil who watches Mizu drift off first just as it had been in Amrita, and he does not mind. He admires the little marks he's left along her skin after their lovemaking, or simply listens to the soft sighs and hums that occasionally slip from her in her sleep, or ensures he lies perfectly still to allow her the deepest sleep Mizu affords herself to have. Eventually, on those nights, he joins her in sleep, but he always basks in the warmth between them regardless of what they've done or how long he has with her before sleep takes her.
It's what leaves him often so stubborn first thing, delaying the inevitable of when she will want to start her day officially by keeping her in bed with him for as long as he can. He uses every trick he can think of, makes every argument he can possibly make before he's willing to concede. And even then, he has not been above attempting to look as morose and pathetic in her absence as he possibly can to trick her into coming within arm's reach once more, and playfully snaring her in his arms until she's successfully paid for her freedom with an adequate number of kisses that is never at all consistent.
When she pulls him nearer, Mizu wakes him. But Vergil's eyes do not open, nor does he particularly stir. He simply allows her to move both herself and him as she wills, and he lies there as she leaves him, still and breathing his deep, steady breaths.
"Why are you awake? It's not morning yet," he says eventually, his voice rough with sleep. He's aware it actually is morning, of course. Mizu wakes at nearly the exact same time each day without fail, a habit she maintained even when they were trapped in Amrita and there were fewer options afforded to her to fill her day with. Vergil draws her in even closer, pressing her against himself with a light squeeze as he buries his face in her neck. Vergil's hold loosens just long enough to reach for the blankets and pull them up a little further to more properly tuck her back in. Against her skin, he mumbles, "Don't you dare get up now."
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"It is morning," Mizu insists, though she goes nowhere. Her cabin has windows, and on a second story, Mizu doesn't worry about someone looking in. Not that the sun is much in Wintermute at this time of the year. It's darkened as it was when she first moved here. Mizu hasn't brightened the room yet, so they remain in the dark where it may be denied it is morning. It looks far less like morning than any other region.
She's glad Vergil is awake, much as she enjoys how he looks at rest, relaxed in her arms and trusting her, trusting he's safe with her. It's different in the same bed than sleeping side by side on the road or on the floor of a shrine. It's not the safety of knowing Taigen only wants to kill her honorably or Ringo... Ringo. No, the closest similarity remains that time she continually wants to push from mind. Even the darkness helps, so that morning resembles the middle of the night. Mizu sighs as Mikio's face comes to mind again. Mizu leans into Vergil and breathes him in.
"Stay awake with me," Mizu says, "No falling asleep to keep me here." Because she never leaves while he's asleep. He always knows when she gets upβnever has to wonder.
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"I don't know what I find more offensive: the fact you asked me to sacrifice so much of my sleep last night already only to ask for more, or that you would accuse me of employing such an unimaginative tactic," he teases before lightly nuzzling at her. Despite his playful protesting, Vergil finally moves his head back onto his pillow, removing his face from where it was buried in her neck, and blue-grey eyes open. Vergil absentmindedly traces a pattern over one of her shoulder blades with his fingertips. "It's not like you to ask me to stay awake though. Bad dream?"
The question of her dreams is not to insinuate that she experienced a nightmare or was otherwise afraid of whatever she might have dreamed. Instead, it is more a question of whether or not Mizu's dreams had veered into something unpleasant and left her with things she would rather not dwell upon lingering her mind. Vergil doesn't possess the intention to push for her to talk about it if that ends up being the case. Mizu either will talk about it or she will seek distraction. Either way, he's awake and present enough to serve to either end so that her day might start a little more pleasantly than it may be threatening otherwise.
CW: references to fire, injury/death from fire, sex work, arranged marriage
The more serious statement returns her attention to what bothered her before. How rude it is that those memories should disturb her in these moments. Yes, Vergil is older than her, but beyond that, there are few commonalities he shares with Mikio. Mizu refuses to give mind to those thoughts, the ways in which they are different, at this moment with Vergil there with her. She wishes they never pushed themselves into her mind, but she will not give them silent possession of her mind while Vergil is with her.
Mizu could distract herself, lose herself in being with Vergil, and enjoy every moment of it because it is wonderful. The thoughts would only return later, as she well knows, and Mizu wants them gone. As loath as she is to put them to words, something Mizu has never done, it may well be the way to banish them. The fact Vergil shared so deeply of his own pain and trauma, of events far worse than what Mizu has gone through, only provides another reason. He could share that. What are these memories in comparison? People being people, no better or worse than Mizu could expect of them.
"Bad memories," Mizu clarifies. "I told you before about the fire when I was a child and how I wound up on the street afterward. I thought my motherβthe woman I thought was my motherβdied that day." Died because Mizu left the shack and showed herself. Died because of Mizu. "When I left swordfather for my revenge, I traveled widely across Japan. I stumbled across her selling herself on a bridge."
It was fortuitous for Mizu, who may otherwise have died as one and all refused to help her with her injuries. Except it was also horrible and something she wishes never happened. She'd have survived somehow and without everything that followed.
"I told her I could take care of her. I had money I'd saved, and I'd made money as I traveled, enough for bribes and other expenses. Or I had," Mizu's voice turns bitter, "She spent it all shortly. She asked me to take care of her the way a daughter is expected to take care of her mother." A snort escapes. "This from the woman who told me I always had to live as a man. Except, of course, when it suited her. I felt responsible for what happened to her, her face was covered in burns, and I cared for her, so I agreed.
"Which is how I ended up married to a disgraced samurai in the mountains." At long last, mention of Mikio himself. Mizu pauses there to give Vergil time to digest the information and to react. She pauses to give herself time before she speaks of the relationship she's never spoken of. Married. Mizu'd never said those words out loud before, true as they are.
cw: references to arranged marriage, potential spousal abuse
But he keeps his skepticism and speculation to himself. Her relationship with her mother and the conflicts that arose after their reunion is only the beginning. Instead, Vergil listens and continues drawing his patterns on Mizu's back.
His brow only furrows a little as Mizu speaks of performing her duty as a daughter by accepting her arranged marriage. The marriage itself is not the thing that strikes Vergil, however. He understands that Mizu comes from an era where she was never likely going to be afforded the opportunity to choose for herself as a woman or a man, and there's little sense in moralizing over whether that is right or wrong. It simply is what it is, was what it was. Rather instead, even without Mizu's comment about her mother's hypocrisy after pushing for her to disguise herself as a boy, as a man, Vergil understands the inherent risk in this arrangement. They had looked for a girl, not a boy, Mizu said. And so, for the chance to provide for her mother, Mizu chanced and risked everything by living as a woman, marrying a stranger who owed her nothing, and was not guaranteed to protect her. It's that fact alone that has caused the look on Vergil's face even if he is willing to refrain from too much speculation regarding her bad memories.
"Did he mistreat you?" he asks because Vergil doesn't doubt that it would be an easy thing for this disgraced samurai to do. What consequence would there possibly be to him if he did not treat his bride with kindness and respect? Who else could she possibly turn to if he held anything over her head? Mizu is capable of caring for herself, of course, but with her mother to concern herself with, it would not be unreasonable that she would tolerate cruelty for her sake and her sake alone.
cw: references to arranged marriage, drug use/addiction, racism, inequal power dynamics
"No," Mizu replies. For all she despises Mikio, he was a far better husband than most women ever receive. "The first night, I went to bed with my sword, but he only entered the room, said he was not a brute, and pulled his mat to the other side. He got annoyed if I distracted a horse he was training, but he ate the terrible food I made without complaint, eventually with laughter, I helped with the chores, and we fell into a rhythm of life. He taught me how to ride better, and I connected with Kai, the horse he'd been trying to break for months. We cut my mother off of opium, and it continued that way for seasons. Almost a year."
Mizu sighs. It's easier to talk about things that happened, facts, than emotions, than what developed between them. The nights Mizu expected him to change his pattern and pull his mat up next to hers. The chemistry between them. The silent looks where they understood each other. Mizu traces her hand along Vergil's skin to ground herself in the present and with him. This, all this, is in the past. Once Mizu exorcises it, it will not even haunt her thoughts. It is only that is her prior experience being with someone. That's all.
"When he chose to give me Kai, instead of presenting her to his lord, I kissed him, and we became something more. We were already married, but we became close. We slept together. We talked. I told him about living as a man, about my revenge," Mizu explains. She's passing over time, skipping so much, but it doesn't matter. It's what happened at its core. She trusted Mikio with who she was. And he, well, he was no Vergil.
She's never distanced herself from her emotions, and Mizu cannot help the anger that creeps into her voice. "He wanted to see my skills with a sword, but he could not handle that I was a better fighter than him, that I defeated him with his own weapon the naginata the first time I used one. After I won, after I grappled and pinned him and held his own blade to his throat, I kissed him, and he pushed me away and called me a monster."
That Mizu would do such a thing won't surprise Vergil, and he is not like Mikio. He kissed her when she pinned him. Her fingers dig into Vergil's back. It was over so quickly after that. Mizu takes deep breaths to steady herself before they reach that point.
"He gave Kai to his lord." And Mizu? Mizu worked to reconcile things between them. It's so foolish looking back to think there was anything to reconcile. To think they could get back to where they'd been and made it work. Mizu'd had a taste of... something, and she wanted it back even though it already slipped through her fingers. What came, what happened, it was already what it would be.
cw: reference to racism, sexism, arranged marriages
Strange as it may be to think given that no small part of Vergil does quietly bristle at the idea of another having such intimacy with Mizu, but Vergil is glad Mizu had something more. That there was something in her life that at least gave her the notion for even a short while that she was lovable, and that she felt safe enough to part with pieces of herself that she in all likelihood intended to never share for even a moment with another person.
Which really only serves for Vergil's own anger to rise, matching the anger Mizu cannot entirely contain when she describes his betrayal of that trust she placed in him. (Little does Vergil know that it is merely the beginning.) Were he still on that line between sleep and wakefulness, what she says would have likely pulled him firmly on the side of wakefulness. She told him not that long ago how commonplace it is for others in her world to consider her a demon, a monstrous thing incapable of anything but destruction and suffering. But this is not some stranger who happened to see the true color of her eyes in a fleeting moment. This was her husband. Someone who claimed to have loved her. And he could not accept her for who she is in totality. That, Vergil believes, is not love. Not true love as it is meant to be and what Mizu deserves.
"He was a small, weak man then," Vergil says bluntly. He ceases his tracing of patterns along her shoulder blade to more firmly wrap his arms around her, tight and protective. "His pride was fragile enough that you managed to bruise it, and he chose to be a coward in response."
Vergil is not unaware that her heritage was likely a factor in that fragility of his pride, as was her sex. Being bested by his wife of mixed descent was likely a significant blow to a man already brought low by his previous disgrace and exile. But the factors being known and having some understanding of her husband's perspective does not somehow make any of this right. He knew giving away Kai was only ever going to hurt Mizu. It was a cowardly attempt to make Mizu feel small and asserting himself as the superior because he felt entitled enough that he could not just rescind something he gifted to her, but that he could rescind anything.
Including his love. Or what he pretended to be love.
Love can be damaged. It can be spoiled and ruined and broken, and it can even be morphed into something far uglier than its former self. But it is simply not something that can be taken back so readily and easily. Her husband cared for her for a time, Vergil will not deny that much. But he did not love her.
So, it is not that Mizu is or ever was unlovable. Her husband was too small, too weak, too cowardly to ever truly love her.
cw: reference to racism, sexism, arranged marriages, murder
They were both fools.
"He chose the far fetched hope that giving Kai to his lord would restore his honor over what we had, what we were," Mizu says firmly and without forgiveness. He could have never given her Kai. He could have chosen that from the beginning, and Mizu wouldn't have held it against him. It's only because he chose her before and that he called her a monster that it hurts so much. That she doesn't forgive it.
It isn't even the worst part of that day. Mizu leans against Vergil and lets him hold her and takes comfort in finding something better. She's not sure she'd ever talk about Mikio and those days without that.
"There was little time to consider the issue, however, because no sooner had my mother informed me of this fact than the sound of multiple hoof beats came from outside. I did not wish to give myself away by bringing my sword, should it not concern my identity, so I tucked a kitchen knife into my obi and went out to meet them. The men immediately dismantled and approached me with weapons. I asked them what white devil they servedβI've never found out who placed the price on my headβbut they only pointed me out as the devil present."
Mizu pauses and sighs. There's only two ways those men could learn of her existence at that location: her mother or Mikio. She didn't need to hear more to know that, but everyone loves to injure a demon like her. Everyone in Japan, at least.
"They told me someone turned me in for the bounty. It was drawing toward a fight when I heard Mikio returned. He was on his horse, saw the scene, and left." Bitterness bleeds through those words. He not only sold her horse but left her to fight and if she were not good enough to die. "I killed them all. When it was over, Mikio returned and apologized. Said he'd been a coward and wanted to make things right between us."
Mizu scoffs. "If he'd fought them with me, if he'd said that and stood by my side, I would have forgiven him."
Except, he didn't. He was a coward through and through.
"My mother came out and accused him of betraying me. Since she was smoking opium, he asked her how she bought it and accused her of betraying me. They argued and fought, and I walked away, drenched in blood. He stabbed her and begged me for forgiveness. I threw the knife over my shoulder, just the way he'd taught me to cut a peach from a branch, to land right in his eye." Mizu's tone is cold and distant, recounting events rather than emotions. "I eventually came back for my things, to pack what supplies and money there was, and left."
It was over in a handful of minutes. So much gone so quickly once everyone showed their true selves. The sum total of her romantic experiences before Vergil.
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In reflecting upon it, Vergil realizes it does not ultimately matter who sold Mizu out. They both had already betrayed their promises of love and care for Mizu plenty enough that there was never any recovering from that. Not really. Because although Mizu herself acknowledges she would have offered forgiveness to her husband if he had stood beside her in the end, Vergil doesn't believe it would have been enough. Something else would have happened, some implicit demand placed upon Mizu in the name of a selfish love that serves only to protect his fragile ego, and there would have been a different end to it. And as for her mother...? Vergil is less certain how those matters would have ended themselves, but she cared for her money and opium, not her daughter. Vergil possesses even greater doubts she would have been able to change than he does for Mizu's husband knowing she abandoned Mizu once as a child, helpless and in need of the love and protection of a parent in a world that despised her from birth.
Never seek to tell thy love
Love that never told can be
For the gentle wind does move
Silently invisibly
I told my love I told my love
I told her all my heart
Trembling cold in ghastly fears
Ah she doth depart
What else could Mizu conclude? She opened her heart to another and set aside her own wants to perform her duties as would be expected of her only to be met with the same scorn as before, but because of her vulnerability, it was a wound that hurt deeper than any that came before it. Vergil has always been able to observe and appreciate Mizu has been quite brave in her vulnerability with him. That much was obvious in the way she often fell silent in obvious discomfort, likely wrestling with how much to tell before carefully parting with a buried truth. It is part of why Vergil has never felt compelled to push past her limits because she already likely was in telling him much of anything.
"I have said before your mother should have protected you, and the same is true of him," he says after another beat of silence. Although Mizu was no longer a child as she had been when her mother failed to protect her, and she was more than capable of handling herself, her husband should not have abandoned her either. "Neither of them loved you as they should have, but that fault lies in them. Not you."
He pulls back gently from her so that he can more easily meet her eyes.
"I know it may seem an easy thing for me to say because I am not from your time nor your world, but my words are true regardless." Unwrapping one of his arms from around her, he holds her cheek in his hand. "And I know that to be fact because there is not a single day since you have shared even a single part of yourself that hasn't felt a gift or something to be cherished regardless of what it is."
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Neither of them protected her as they should have. She knows now that she was but a stranger, someone else's babe, an atrocity that her supposed mother took care of so long as the money lasted and the danger was not great. That a strange woman, a stranger, could not love her is far more familiar a sentiment, not so different from the cold shoulders and averted gazes she receives from most people. Mizu was never a person to her mother, only a means to live upon, so of course she would sell Mizu, a stranger she hadn't seen in over a decade, into marriage with a man she'd never met. Of course she would sell Mizu for the bounty when her opium was cut off. It does not reflect anything on either of them. Most likely.
Mizu meets Vergil's gaze, and tears threaten to fill her rounded eyes and spill down her cheek. She was brash, arrogant, and foolhardy when sparring Mikio. She was no honorable samurai meeting him in silent virtue like at a duel. Vergil could imagine her easily or something similar in kind because she's acted the same toward him. Yes, Vergil is a skilled swordsman and of supernatural abilities, such that she has not defeated him yet, but Mizu trusts he would respect her victory. If she were particularly boastful and proud, he might whoop her ass into the ground hard, the way he did after their hand-to-hand sparring when she questions the validity of his abilities. No matter the circumstance, no matter her attitude in all its flaws, the win would be hers and her skill acknowledged. It will be.
So Vergil's words do not come from an ignorance of who Mizu is. Whether or not he's right, she knows he believes it. A half-demon from another world would understand her better than some random person, especially one with a white face like his. His blue eyes are paler than hers, but they're there, familiar beacons, whatever the differences in their experiences. Maybe it takes a demon toβ care for her.
He holds her face and her gaze, and Vergil saysβ
Mizu blinks once, twice, the words tumbling over themselves. It feels as though they lodge in her throat, something too large to grasp and take in. Mizu hiccups once before something breaks. The tears pour out, and Mizu does not understand why she's suddenly sobbing. Stunned, Mizu says nothing, only hiccuping a few more times as she tries to comprehend what Vergil said.
They shared big secrets the first time they met, when they were nothing to each other. It shouldn't have meant anything to Vergil that she shared what she did, forced as it was at the fox spirit's hand, much less something to cherish as a gift. From someone else, she might assume their current feelings colored their memories. That's not Vergil. He may love flowery poetry that Mizu does not understand, but he understands it and himself. Mizu believes him, but she doesn't know how to believe him. She's not a gift. She wants whatever it is Vergil's saying fantastical and foreign as it sounds.
She might lay there in silence forever, unable to reconcile the two, but Mizu knows there is silence, the kind she and Vergil are used to if not entirely comfortable with each time it comes around, and there is silence of a wholly different nature, the kind that comes and sits and weighs everything down until it has all gone wrong. Mizu opens her mouth and is genuinely surprised when she finds herself saying, "Why is it only you?"
Mizu doesn't understand the question, but it's there, something she needed to say. She doesn't expect an answer.
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She finds her voice again eventually, and with his hand leaving her cheek, Vergil pulls the blankets up over both their heads. He makes the world even darker, yes, but he also makes it smaller. An intimacy wherein there is only her and him, and their shared warmth and mingling scents as he draws her in closer to himself with both of Vergil's arms wrapped around her once more. This time, his fingertips trace along her neck, slowly and repeatedly as he allows her to hide as little or as much as she wants there in his arms.
"I don't believe it is only me," Vergil says quietly, as if there was a possibility of his voice carrying and the wrong ears were to hear it. The words are only meant for her, but he also knows they are likely difficult words to hear. Even if they are kind ones, they must still be so challenging for her to hear. "There are others. But it is hard, Mizu. It is hard to allow them after everything."
Whether or not Mizu is able to recognize it in the storm of her own emotions, Vergil is speaking from experience. One may crave love, crave the care and attention of others, and yet still find it an impossible and daunting thing to be loved and cared for. Vergil knows this because he has spent the better part of his life craving love, and yet, he has run from it nearly every damn time it has presented itself. It did not matter if it was a failure to recognize his mother's love, rejecting his brother's hand, or fleeing from his son's mother and her kindness. Even here with Mizu, it was not an easy decision on Vergil's part to allow for his feelings, to allow for the possibility that Mizu herself returned those feelings. To be loved is something that requires courage, and he has not possessed that courage for the majority of his life. He doesn't believe Mizu has much herself either. Not very often, at least.
But there have been moments of love in her life. Vergil knows there have been because he has seen it firsthand with her swordfather, and because he himself loves her. Others must have been able to look beyond their prejudices to see her and love her. But Mizu could not see it. She could not understand it. She could not accept it. It is easier to believe herself unlovable and broken in some way, to think it madness to care for her, than to allow herself to be loved and love in return. And Vergil knows what that is like. His reasons may differ, but he knows it all too well that aversion to such vulnerability that comes with connecting with another person.
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Her breathing feels shallow, but Mizu focuses some attention to evening it out. It's small, but it's something she can do, a small way of helping herself. It isn't easy, especially not when Vergil's first response is to contradict her. Her question. That truth that slipped out uninvited. Mizu bites down on her tongue and the urge to immediately correct Vergil. Others. He most likely means Master Eiji. They had a reunion, courtesy of Ringo and quite likely her injured state. Swordfather let her and Taigen recover with him and crumbled before Ringo when the latter decided Master Eiji was his new master. They spoke, and it was better than when she left. He refused to let her use his forge, but she built her own oven to make new steel. He gave her a set of tongs to melt down into the steel.
Something else cracks, and Mizu holds on tighter. She doesn't know whether swordfather accepts her, not really, until she returns from Edo. Until she returns from Folkmore. Once he judges her worthy of one of his blades, she will know they are truly okay. Until then, like Fowler's life, it hangs on a knife point, moments away and forever at a distance. Mizu had to forge her sword, her sword in Folkmore, without his approval. Mizu leans her head against Vergil's. It's something that he believes Master Eiji will prove true, that she will prove worthy of his approval. It also cannot be known for certain until it happens.
"Everyone else has left me, and they do not know the worst things I have done," Mizu says. Vergil doesn't either, not the specifics. Other than burning down Edo, which is the worst thing she's done when it comes to a matter of scale. However, it lacks the horror of the intent, the personal interaction, and the callous disregard for whoever had to die to enable Mizu to reach her ends. Even so, Mizu's sure Vergil would not judge her for them. Everyone else? They cannot even handle what they know.
She wrinkles her nose then shakes her head a little. "Well, I guess there's Rin." So much as Mizu's let Rin in.
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Certainly far more tenacious than Vergil would have expected her to be, in any case. Vergil thinks if Mizu were to be as honest with Rin as she is with Vergil, it would not end with Rin leaving. Oh, the girl is liable to have a large emotional outburst over some facts of Mizu's life that Mizu probably has no idea what to do with nor likely would care to manage, but Rin would persist for longer than that outburst in the end. If Mizu's attitude hasn't been enough to scare the little thing off, not much is likely to succeed to that end.
"I cannot speak to the others in your world," he plainly admits, returning to the broader topic at hand. Vergil was not there when events unfolded, and in the absence of the fox spirit's trickery and games, he only has Mizu's version of events, which he knows is liable to be skewed. "But do you think perhaps it could be as it was with your swordfather?"
Master Eiji and Mizu did not part on the best of terms the first time as Vergil well knows. However, it was never really a question to Vergil of whether or not it was Mizu that Master Eiji was rejecting. It always seemed to him that it was Mizu's decision that angered her swordfather. His expectations for her in how he raised her did not align with the decision she was making, and his anger was likely rooted in a fear of what would become of her if she truly committed herself to that decision. While he was still clearly displeased with her decision upon their reunion, and likely many of the decisions that came after given Master Eiji refused to contribute to her self-destruction, he did not refuse her. He still allowed Mizu the opportunity to prove herself, to make decisions that would enact her revenge without sacrificing herself in the process.
And Vergil knows all of that to be exceptional as the love of a parent to their child tends to be. He is not implying that others may have the same patience, the same willingness to tolerate decisions they perceive to be mistakes. But there may yet be some. There may be some bonds Mizu has managed to form where there is that chance for a repair to be made, an opportunity to prove herself if she is willing to take the risk in trying for it.
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It is something to consider, but Mizu sets those thoughts aside when Vergil speaks again and the conversation returns to where it originally was, where Mizu's thoughts lie. Where people consider her a monster, a demon, an onryΕ. It's what Taigen considered her growing up, and she stands between him and his honor yet. It's how Akemi treated her for taking Taigen from her side and for abandoning her to her father. Oh Akemi accepted Mizu's help escaping, but it was not for any friendly feelings. It's why Ringo returned the bell, the symbol of his apprenticeship. Mizu never anticipated the cheap item to mean so much. She only wanted him to stop appearing out of nowhere before her. Yet receiving it hurt more than she expected. It's where the story Mizu shared, of her mother and her husband, ended. Mizu, the monster.
Vergil does not mention her mother or Mikio. He does not know of Taigen, Ringo, or Akemi. It circles back to thoughts she herself considered only moments before. It takes no tricks of reading her mind to approach this subject however, not when Vergil has twice raised the issue of Master Eiji being her father, as well as her master. Of everyone in her life, he's known her the longest, seen her grow from a young child to an adult, and taught her much of what she knows. If only one person in Mizu's life were to accept her and to love her fully, she would want it to be him. The thought, recognized consciously, aches because it's the kind of wish that someone like Mizu never gets fulfilled. Wishing for it, leaning on it in any way, only asks for more heartbreak and pain. She will have her revenge. She will not change that for anyone, and in so doing, she may never have swordfather's approval. Mizu may leave the limbo that Folkmore is, kill Fowler, and return only to be rejected once more, only to leave for London worse off than she is now.
Mizu adjusts to lay her head on the pillow, to see Vergil's face, if not particularly in focus for how close they are. Tears stain tracks down her face, but Mizu ignores them and leaves them be. Everything feels raw and on edge without the adrenaline rush and enjoyment of a fight. Nothing to direct and drive her emotions through. Only words and Vergil's arms around her, and his back under her hands. Vergil's warm, and the bed and sheets around them are warm despite how cold it is outside, and Mizu... Mizu is comfortable, physically, if nothing else. It drives a stark comparison to the piercing painful question, to thinking about swordfather and his rejection of her, about their conversation on the cliffside about being an artist.
"He wanted an apprentice, someone to work with him and to continue to make swords as he does, as an artist. Everything he does he does to make good swords. I cannot be that person. So long as my revenge is incomplete, I can never be that person. I have never been that person. He did not understand my desire to train with a sword. He allowed it, but he understood I would have trained whether he allowed it or not. Once my revenge is complete, even should I decide that returning and becoming a swordsmith is what I wish for, I do not know what it would be like, but it would not be the same.
"He did not wish for me to leave, and I did. It will never be as it was." That is the truth, as unfortunate or tragic as it is. Mizu is who she is. Master Eiji is who he is. She could never be the apprentice he wanted. She isn't. She's always dedicated herself to more than making swords. To revenge. That is her art. Swordfather does everything to make good swords. Mizu made good swords to enact her revenge.
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Vergil understands perhaps better than most how one can irrevocably change things with their decisions. He knows that no matter what he does now with Dante, they cannot go back to what they were as children. Too much has happened and been said for them to ever go back to that. But that does not inherently mean there is nothing worth salvaging, nor does it mean what they might build with one another cannot be just as good as what was. Or perhaps even better. But Vergil's hold on that small hope of being able to still build something out of what has become of his relationship with his brother comes from his desire and drive to do as much. With as much as Mizu has denied herself though, it would not surprise him to learn she has never considered this question in the first place, or she has a less charitable answer for it.
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How can she judge what it will be like, when neither she nor swordfather are yet the people who would be in it? Mizu does not know how the rest of her revenge will change her, nor how Master Eiji will change, at least in his opinion of her, during that time. Mizu cannot even be sure she would make the attempt in the first place, that she will wish to do that.
"Could you predict what it would be like to reunite with Dante after you achieved your dream for power?" Mizu asks. "Imagining what it might be like with swordfather is as impossible for me as it would be for you after you refused Dante's hand decades ago."
"Could it be as good? Perhaps. It could also be impossible. That, the more likely." Mizu glances down. "He may not see me as a monster for how I was born, but he could still determine the demon's taken all the chairs for what I've done. What I'll do."
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Vergil's jaw tenses slightly at the mention of Dante and Vergil's refusal to take his hand, to do anything other than pursuing power. It is not an unfair comparison, but with a recent conversation with his brother still so fresh on his mindβDante's initial silence still so deafening that it leaves his subsequent promise little more than a whisperβthe comparison settles a bit more poorly than it otherwise would for Vergil. Part of him feels like biting back that he's more than aware of the difficulty in predicting what it would be to reunite with his brother. He faced that uncertainty once as V, disguising any aspect of his true identity out of a fear that Dante would refuse to help him. He faces it now each day with Dante here in Folkmore. But he holds his tongue because it is not her he is answering if he does. He listens instead, trying to push aside the distraction of his brother.
The rest of her answer leads him to sigh. Mizu gives a small chance that the worst may not come to pass. She tries to couch the worst outcome in a probability. But she still speaks with unearned certainty, and damns the alternatives with insignificant chance.
"So long as you recognize, could is not the same as will. No matter the probability you assign to it. He still has a choice and will of his own, just as you do."
And as she said, she cannot truly predict what Master Eiji will do.
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Mizu nods her head slightly in recognition of what Vergil says. They each have choices, the two of them. Mizu is the one who comes and leaves, while Master Eiji stays where he is. The first choice is hers. Once there, they each do as they will. Stubborn, the both of them. She lets that future, that hazy unpredictable future rest.
"I told him I'd come back after I killed Fowler," Mizu shares, "if I survived. Let him decide whether or not I was worthy of steel by his hand." She pauses and traces the kanji for fire on Vergil's back. "He can decide for himself what to make of what I did to Edo."
If he cannot accept her for doing that, if that's enough to turn her away, there will be no reason to go back after killing Routley and Skeffington. No need to ponder that distant future. They must get through the immediate aftermath before parting for a greater time, whether it be as great as the years before or less. The voyage around the world alone will take a good amount of time. If everyone in Japan sees her as a monster, who is to say she will even return? Mizu does not care to think about it, about anything after her revenge. It's a distraction all the more likely to make it never become a concern in the first place.
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"He will," he says, letting the matter rest by not speaking of which way her swordfather's decision will fall. Mizu knows what he thinks the outcome will be. She knows what he believes it will be. And they both know that the answer will not reveal itself until the time for it has arrived. There's little sense on either of them continuing to dwell upon it any further. Vergil brings a hand down to one of Mizu's legs, disentangling it to hook it loosely around his hip as he somewhat lazily rolls Mizu over onto her back. His remaining hand at her back slips out from beneath her to support some of his weight on an elbow beside her as he leans down to kiss her. Despite their current positioning, the kisses he places to her lips are chaste and simpler expressions of his affection for her. He teases her lightly by saying, "Might we at the very least agree that you have made marked improvement in your choice for lovers?"
Which really is less about Vergil's ego as it sounds, and more subtle a reminder that her bad memories of the man before Vergil does not determine what happens between the two of them any more than her mother's decisions determine Master Eiji's decisions. Vergil is not her late husband, and he would not have even for a moment considered the decisions he made. Even if there was something he found himself in disagreement with or his pride was bruised, he could never find it within himself to lash out at her, nor abandon her when she might need him. Not with how he feels for Mizu.
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Mizu bites her lip for a moment before laughing. He's known of Mikio's existence for all of a single morning, and he turns all the comparisons she's made, all her quiet thoughts, into a teasing remark aloud. Spoken of. Not something haunting her thoughts. They may yet be banished.
"You're more than a month late to that realization," Mizu replies. She runs one hand into his hair and enjoys brushing it with her fingers. It's yet one more place it's easy to draw differences between them, by far a less important one, but it's grounding to touch Vergil and even with her eyes closed be unable to mistake the two. "I've known that since the first day by the pool. Not only because you kissed me when I pinned you down, but because you opened yourself up to me, you listen and do not think any worse of me, you already knew me at my most foolish... you care for me, not some idea of me, and you will still care for me when I defeat you."
Mizu knows everything she said, it's obvious, something Vergil knows and surely, with this conversation at least, knows she knows as well, yet it feels far more fragile to say it aloud. She teases back, "I wouldn't delay my mornings for you otherwise."
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"I already told you earlier it isn't morning yet," he says with a smile, gently bumping noses with her and nuzzling her in his affection. "So, perhaps you might consider delaying morning a little longer with me."
Vergil kisses Mizu again sweetly, bringing more of his weight to rest comfortably upon her in subtle proposal of how the morning might yet be delayed further.
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Stubborn and narrowly focused on her goals as she is, Mizu melts into the kiss and the continued desire to spend more time with her. No excuses about time saved in traveling instantaneously, it's what she wants. Her leg tightens around Vergil, as though he's the one that might get up and leave, and Mizu kisses Vergil repeatedly.
"Perhaps a little while," Mizu says against his lips, "until you've finished."
Half a joke, but Mizu lacks the urgency to rush anything. It's enough to explore him beneath her hands yet again and to pull his head down the small distance to kiss him. This moment is hers, and that cannot be taken away from her.
in which dante seeks ~advice~ from his big brother
When he finds Vergil, he takes a second β mulls over whether or not he wants to actually do this or just chicken out and get something to drink. In the end, he sucks it up and saunters his way all casually over, playing with a yo-yo as he does. When heβs close enough to, he walks the dog with it towards Vergil, lazy smile there on his face. )
Whatcha doinβ?
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[This would normally be understandably interpreted as a purely sarcastic response coming from Vergil given his growing contempt for the meal, but it is what he's actually doing. It just also is entirely understandable if that's not what it looks like he's doing from Dante's perspective considering he's in the process of blanching the tomatoes so they can be peeled and crushed. Vergil glances up briefly at Dante before turning his attention back to his tomatoes as he begins scooping a few of them out and placing them into a bowl of ice water.]
Did you need something? Or are you just bored?
[Because Vergil can and will put Dante to work if it's the latter. He's not going to have Dante underfoot in the kitchen and not contribute to this in some capacity.]
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Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?
( Teasing, he goes about playing with his yo-yo again as he twists around some, enough to be able to drop himself back into the counter and lean against comfortably out of Vergilβs way there. For a long moment, it seems as though he is, in fact, bored and had merely been searching his brother out as he often did when he was little as a means to entertain himself in whatever ways he could. But thatβs not entirely the case here and the silence that comes from him is one thatβs more heavy with hesitation than boredom from his brotherβs lack of doing anything of interest to him.
Again, he walks the dog before he snaps it back up to his palm and looks over for a moment at the progress Vergil has made before he lets go of a breath softly. )
Soβ¦ Neroβs momβ¦ ( He stares down, playing with his yo-yo. ) β¦she knew who you were, I take it.
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[In their silence, he finishes fishing out all the tomatoes from the pot before sparing another glance at Dante. Frowning slightly, he turns the burner off and sets the last tomato into the ice bath, but he doesn't make any demands of Dante to help him as a means of breaking the silence. Despite how casually Dante is leaning against the counter, if he was just bored, he would be chattering away about something and the silence wouldn't be there. But something is on his mind, and he's clearly trying to think of how to say it. It's rare thing, Vergil reflects upon silently. Between the two of them, Dante was gifted with the silver tongue. He always seemed to know what to say even when he wasn't really saying anything at all. Silences to think of what to say were far more Vergil's modus operandi. So, Vergil allows him the space to formulate whatever it is in the assumption whatever Dante wants to say must be something important. Why else all this potential concern for tact?]
[When Dante does eventually ask his question, Vergil pauses in getting another bowl from one of the bottom cabinets. So. It would seem Nero hasn't told Dante anything Vergil told him. Or, well, none of the details at least. Otherwise, he would already possess that answer. Vergil sets the bowl on the counter and closes the cabinet, clearly uncertain of where this line of conversation might be going.]
Yes, Beatrice knew, [he says, supplying her name for Dante. He isn't exactly keen on talking about her to any great length with Dante. Not directly, not yet. But when Nero asked for her name, it struck Vergil then and there that he hadn't said her name in decades. And knowing the sort of fate that most likely befell her... Well, it is a little thing to keep her memory alive to at least not shy from saying her name. Even if it still feels a bit...strange in its own way to say it now with the inevitable feelings of unresolved matters and grief and shame that now more presently accompany the memory of her. But Vergil is able to set them aside at least. So, there is no missing beat as he provides a slightly more detailed answer.] I told her once I believed she could be trusted with the truth.
[Vergil didn't typically hide who he was after their mother's death, but while investigating the Order? Discretion was warranted to avoid whatever nonsense or trouble might follow at being a son of the Savior.]
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He gives it another second β nods his head to show heβs listening and gets it and then twists some to face his brother, though he still looks down to the yo-yo he plays with. )
Did she⦠ever see you as a demon? You know, when we look like that and all.
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[Once again, Dante's question is striking albeit not for the exact same reason as before wherein it had been obvious Nero hadn't shared details of his origins with his uncle. Rather instead, the question seems more specific than his opening question while offering no further illumination on where exactly this conversation is going.]
Yes... [he says, warily. Rather than provide any further context based on assumptions of particularly what Dante might be getting after, Vergil leaves it there. He deems it better to let Dante ask his questions than try to divine and intuit his real intentions.]
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Pulling the yo-yo up to smack in the palm of his hand as he catches it, he licks over his lips and chances a glance up to his brother for a second, gaze wandering around the kitchen after. )
Did you and her ever... you know... when you were like that?
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That, [he manages eventually, pointing a finger at Dante,] is none of your business.
[Although with how noticably red Vergil is... Well. Dante can reach his own conclusions if Vergil is merely scandalized by the thought alone, the discussion of his sex life suddenly has him easily embarrassed, or if he's inadvertently provided affirmation. Vergil turns back to his tomatoes shaking his head.]
Why would you ask me something like that in the first place? [He holds a hand up after placing a tomato in the other bowl.] And don't give me some nonsense about concern for my sex life right now. Actually tell me why you're asking.
[Despite the demand for an explanation, Vergil isn't angry so much as clearly flustered. Which was likely always to be the kneejerk response to that question. Vergil remains a private individual, and especially so when it comes to more intimate matters of his relationships.]
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Oh, brother.
( Said both fondly and playfully as he twirls the yo-yo around some before he starts swinging it back and forth, seemingly focused on it more than he is his brother and his cherry red tomato face. Once again, there's silence that comes from the youngest son of Sparda. No teasing, no jokes, no riffs about how wild his big brother seemingly was in his youth. Just... silence. One that he doesn't let stretch for too long, but. When he finally lets it come to an end, the lazy smile that had been there on his face is replaced with a more pensive expression β almost a little too somber or unnatural for someone like Dante to wear. )
You weren't ever worried? ( He still doesn't look up. ) About hurting her like that? You know. By accident.
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[But he looks to his brother then and sees that oddly serious expression that almost makes Dante difficult to recognize. Whatever protests Vergil had ready to fire off about how he never said he did anything like that with her, and didn't he also say it was none of Dante's business all die before they can begin to leave his mouth. Oh, Vergil still frowns in obvious discomfort and displeasure with the topic of conversation. That much does not change. But instead of potentially snapping at him amid his renewed fluster, Vergil simply looks back at the tomatoes.]
What sort of stupid question is that? [he huffs instead.] Of course I was worried I might hurt her. It wasn't my idea in the first place, and control under other circumstances didn't guarantee I had control then in the middle of...that.
[He glances at Dante ever so briefly before admitting,]
To whatever degree you may accuse me of having been callous back then, you would likely be correct. But I never was with her.
[She meant something to Vergil. Even if he tried to pretend it wasn't the case at the time and eventually ran from it when he could no longer deny it, she wasn't just some girl he was sleeping with while he was investigating the Order and trying to find more information on Sparda's power.]
But she trusted me, [he says, his hands stilling again as he privately recognizes she trusted him far more than she likely should have in the end considering he didn't have the courage and strength to stay.] And I suppose I trusted her as well. So, I agreed to it at least once.
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Truth be told, he finds himself gently surprised that Vergil is rather forthcoming with a reply and it's enough to get him to peek up at his brother for just a moment before he's looking back down to his yo-yo that sadly and slowly spins there near his feet, dangling. It's not so much that he's nosy about his brother's business with Nero's mother β ok maybe a little because what the hell still β but it's more their being what they are and how they can be where his curiosity stems from, especially when it concerns others who are very much human and not like them.
So as he twists away from his brother to let his lower back sink into the edge of the counter there which he leans against again, it's with a quiet sigh there on his lips and a slow reeling in of his yo-yo with his fingers, looking downwards. )
Would kind of be a mood killer to end up losing control in the middle of that, yeah. Or getting carried away.
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[In general, the two of them continue avoiding talk of their demonic heritage as much as they can. Their opposition may not be as diametric as it once was what with Vergil allowing for his own humanity and Dante not abstaining from obtaining power when the situation calls for it, but it still feels a fraught topic. Dante likely anticipated (or perhaps still anticipates) a lecture from Vergil even if, truth be told, Vergil is disinterested in the argument. For one, he isn't as invested in gaining more power after everything. For another, he just wants his brother back. There is no point nor need to driving such a wedge between them by belaboring a point that no longer needs to be made.]
[Dante also knows it's not really Vergil's tendency to discuss much when it comes to his private affairs both literal and figurative. Vergil hasn't said much on the matter of Nero's mother, and even now he remains reticent on details about her and leaves it to implication. There was likely more chance that Vergil would say nothing on the matter than there was he would provide a response, and Dante had to have known that. Hell, if he hadn't looked actually serious about the topic, Dante absolutely would have been on the receiving end of a curt, likely unkind response to his questions.]
[So, why the curiosity? Why chance a lecture or mean remark for this information?]
[...Is there someone Dante has coupled with?]
[It's not likely that he's simply curious about Vergil's sex life. Much like Vergil would much rather never know details about Dante's sex life, he's certain the same is true in reverse. So, it must be some sort of self-interest driving the questions, and that would imply there is someone Dante has a vested interest in sharing some form of intimacy with that he would be willing to trudge through whatever awkwardness or uncomfortable information might come about in asking Vergil. It isn't as though there's a wealth of options for Dante to ask either considering the uniqueness of their existence even within their own world, never mind in Folkmore. Vergil frowns at the tomato skin he sets aside as that doesn't seem to satisfy as the reason for asking enough.]
[It's true that he doesn't know much about Dante's life back home beyond what he observed during his very brief glimpse into it as V, but... The only real viable option he can think of off the top of his head for a partner that Dante would likely demonstrate some interest in isn't here. Not to Vergil's knowledge, anyway. Although he's quite certain if Lady were here, he would know one way or another about her presence. Most likely in his refrigerator emptying all the more quickly if Dante (or Nero) somehow failed to tell him. But that doesn't explain it either. Why wouldn't he just talk with Lady about it? They have not just kept in touch after all these years, but she's clearly remained close to him. And she likely knows more about the ins and outs of Dante than most would be privy to just from her proximity to Temen-ni-gru and everything that transpired all those years ago. Plus, she may be human, but she's also stayed involved in the demon hunting business above and beyond what another human might be able to keep up with. All of that should account for something, and some kind of trust between the two of them that Dante could freely express something like this to her directly. And frankly, even if it's not Lady and there is someone else, surely, there should be enough built between Dante and this other person by now that they could talk about this.]
[So, why come to his otherwise estranged brother for potential guidance about intimacy with someone that isn't here regardless of whether it is Lady or not?]
[But beyond the look, Vergil ultimately ends up saying nothing to Dante. His focus remains on his current culinary efforts rather than asking a question he knows he won't get an answer for regardless of how many inventive ways he finds to ask it. So, he leaves it be and allows for Dante to determine if his questions have been answered sufficiently.]
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Still, Vergil is his big brother and with no one else to turn to about this, it's why he's here. Regardless of how awkward or uncomfortable it might be. Granted, it's not as if he's going into extreme details here nor does he want them from Vergil, but. A conversation still steeped in awkwardness to some extent.
With the yo-yo pulled up into his palm, he looks over to Vergil then, expression a little more sympathetic. )
Trust, huh? ( Huff on his lips, he shakes his head, bringing his yo-yo up to look at it, turning it around back and forth between his fingers. ) Guess that's something to consider.
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That rarely is a concern of mine. [It isn't a brag. He's far too matter-of-fact in the statement for it to be a reflection of Vergil's long-standing superiority complex over Dante. For all the ways in which Vergil has historically possessed blindspots when it comes to his decisions that could likely call into question the validity of his insight, he's never been one to doubt himself.] If I did not possess any trust in myself whatsoever, I would not have agreed to it.
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Well. Then I guess I wonβt agree to it.
( Clap of his hand on his brotherβs shoulder, he smiles softly while giving a nod. )
Thanks, bro. Good talk.
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[He sighs, an impatient noise as he shakes his head in mild frustration. If there is one thing Vergil doesn't particularly like, it's feeling a step or two behind. But Dante isn't liable to do him any favors in helping him catch up. If anything, he'll only wind up more frustrated when Dante inevitably abandons this more serious tone for something else, something a little more familiar.]
[He slides the bowl of tomatoes a little further down the counter from where he has it placed.]
...If you're going to be over here, make yourself useful and crush these.
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Dropping his gaze down in thought for a moment, he turns then to press his back against Vergilβs back and leans against him, dropping the yo-yo down. )
But you do it so much better than me.
( An almost typical response from a younger sibling looking to get himself out of work. )
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[...Dante and Nero just had better really like this sauce to make it worth it.]
[It's after a moment or two of silence between them that Vergil gently taps the back of their heads together.]
Have you thought of learning here?
[He knows the question is a loaded one. The last time Vergil brought it up was when they were still in Amrita, and it only led to an argument that left both brothers parting in anger. But he tries to ask it in a gentler manner than before. Less I told you so and superior older brother, and more... Well, concern isn't really the right word for it. But he's considering the degree of intimacy and trust involved with coupling the act with that form, and that would mean it's important. Especially if he's pushing through the inherent awkwardness of talking about it with his older brother first. So, it's more Vergil recognizes its importance and Dante's vulnerability in bringing any of this up in the first place, and he tries to be gentler in his approach this time.]
There are plenty of places in Folkmore where there's nothing around if you're concerned about collateral damage. The most you would hurt in some parts of Wintermute are trees, and Cruel Summer would only have the concern of beasts that are liable to attack you first regardless. [He glances over his shoulder.] I wouldn't let you do anything you'd regret later, Dante. I'd stop you before you lost control.
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Back still pressed to his brother's, he drops the yo-yo down once again and lets it spin there for as long as he can, staring to it in silence. Somber. Snapping the yo-yo back up, he forces a smile and knocks his head back against his brother's playfully. )
You know who needs to learn some of that? Your kid.
( A truth and something he's noticed. )
He's sort of there. Can't really keep the control for very long, but I think he can do it. Just needs a little more practice and to not think so much about it. Also think his old man would be the best to learn from as far as all that goes. Real father-son bonding moment, don't you think? You're welcome for that idea.
( Chuckle soft, he rolls the yo-yo over between his palms. )
I'm good though. Like I said, was just a dumb thought.
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Well, if you change your mind...
[He waves vaguely with his free, non-tomato-y hand before returning it to keeping the bowl stable.]
[Vergil chooses to leave it alone in the end. Even if Dante is pretending it isn't all that important and attempts to use Nero as a distraction, the answer is still no to some degree or another.]
GIFT
There's a good-sized envelope tucked in the pages, very deliberately on the page printed with Blake's "The Little Boy Found." Inside the envelope is a stack of photographs of Nero, at various ages from when he was a child.
One depicts a round-cheeked, serious-looking infant with shock white hair, standing up with assistance from a smiling nun holding his hands.
Another shows a class picture from the Order school. Among the students dressed in their little uniforms and smiling obediently, Nero is in the front row sticking his tongue out.
There's another formal photograph of Nero upon his induction to the Holy Knights. He's 13, dressed in the white formal uniform, standing proudly alongside a stern-looking bearded captain and other inductees, all of whom are visibly older than Nero.
In another he's a bit older, wearing a new non-standard uniform and a pair of headphones. It was taken clandestinely as he fell asleep in a church service, feet propped up on a pew and one arm in a sling.
He isn't serious or bored-looking in every picture, though. One shows Nero, around age 8, hanging upside down on a swingset. A little girl with auburn-red hair is swinging, and they're both laughing. Another from around the same time shows Nero at the beach, absolutely covered in mud and sand, grinning and rushing the photographer with messy hands.]
π
Playing Catch(up)
Mostly, he should call it because he can feel the last vestiges of his temper starting to fray with frustration. He can still hear Credo in the back of his head. Do not fight with such anger. You're clumsy. You're unfocused. But Nero absolutely cannot fathom letting it go. Not when he's put on such a poor performance and hardly landed a dozen real, substantial blows on his father in all their practicing. This is not going to be how he gives up for the day.
Besides, he can feel his power building again. His Devil Trigger is ready-- even if he's looking a little clumsy as he slings Red Queen over his shoulder and gets into stance again.]
Don't look at me like that. [However he's being looked at.] I can still fight.
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[Nero should be just as proud of what he's managed today as he is over his victory atop the Qliphoth. Perhaps even prouder. But Vergil senses that rather than taking pleasure in finding a way through Vergil's guard or correctly reading his movements to avoid a blow, Nero instead only buries himself in frustration when his next strike doesn't land or it ends up that it was a feint and he finds himself quickly facedown again.]
[Vergil sheathes Yamato as it strikes him just how much this is like looking into a mirror. Nero fixates on his perceived inadequacies to the detriment of everything else, and his temper only increasing as a consequence in frustration with himself because of what he believes he should be capable of versus his actual performance. Historically and even now, Vergil is much the same way albeit his frustrations these days do not stem from shortcomings he identifies in battle.]
This isn't a real fight, Nero. [In contrast to Nero, Vergil does not adopt a stance again. He stands there opposite his son, trying to convince him that this has been enough for today rather than encouraging him to push forward instead.] There is no need to push yourself to exhaustion today.
[He shakes his head slightly.]
You've done well, but it will defeat the purpose of this to press on any further.
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Besides, he's already exhausted, so what's a little more?]
You giving up already? [The quip lands a bit hollow, given Nero looks like a gentle push could knock him over at this point.] I'm not done. I'm better than this.
[He revs Red Queen over his shoulder, lighting the engine with flames.]
Square up. Come on.
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[No real option feels like the right one inherently, but Vergil still believes it to be better that Nero does not push himself now.]
Your form is becoming sloppier than it was when we began because you are beginning to overexert yourself. [Vergil is beginning to realize he perhaps should have put a stop to this a few rounds prior. Perhaps it would not be so difficult as it appears to be now.] There is no shame in recognizing a limit, Nero. Sloppy form grows to become habit to become muscle memory, and we both know what the outcomes are if you bring that into true battles.
[It becomes much harder to train that out of oneself than to accept the limit exists where it does.]
You will not do better today, but you will tomorrow if you exercise wisdom now and rest.
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[He is tired. He is sloppy. Of course he can't top Vergil. Of course he's barely holding his own. He should just give up and quit before he embarrasses himself even worse. Before he gets this sloppy in every fight because of muscle memory, like his dad says. What if he sucked this much in every fight? If this is the best he can do maybe he just sucks in general? But seriously, there's nothing at stake here, except an outsized chunk of his pride that suggests there are, uh, some issues being tied up with what's supposed to be a basic spar. Who cares?
Nero does. A hell of a fucking lot.
His fingers shake on the grip of his sword as his wings appear, and a wave of demonic energy simmers around him, not quite firing yet but threatening to.]
I'm fucking better than this. I'll prove it.
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Nero, enough.
[There is nothing to prove. There are no demons to be fought. He's gearing up to fight purely on emotion alone rather than thought or technique. It serves only to his detriment, and he has to realize that. There has to be some part of him that does.]
[But Vergil is through appealing to it. His tone is more warning than advisement at this point, which is why he says nothing further. Just those two words alone.]
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He teeters forward, then back again. Then further back as the futility sinks in. Finally, he swings Red Queen over his shoulder. The gout of flame that bursts from the engines makes it look much more dramatic when he slams it crookedly into the dirt and leaves it sticking there.]
Fuck!!
[He kicks the dirt almost as hard as he turns around, fists clenched, stomping furiously a few paces away as he tries to get a handle on his flaring temper.]
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[It's perhaps not particularly advisable to approach Nero right now. In fact, Vergil hesitates a moment before doing so, wondering if the best thing to do is interpret the steps away as his implicit request for space. But his concerns outweigh everything else, the ache he feels in his chest at seeing his child struggling in a way he had yet to witness until now leading him to walk past Red Queen in the dirt and through the additional paces. Vergil says his name again, much softer this time, before he reaches out to try and place a hand on his shoulder, attempting to pull him in for a tight embrace.]
[If he's rebuffed, so be it. Vergil thinks it far worse to just stand there passively observing Nero as he is now. He'll only try again one more time in that instance before giving up on it albeit remaining close by.]
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There's movement at the corner of his eye, a hand on his shoulder, and he spins around defensively. Vergil moves in and out of sheer reflex he swats and stumbles back a step, and it's then with the second attempt that he realizes his father is trying to... hug him? This makes him freeze, torn between angry reflex and his implicit desire not to shun Vergil's clumsy attempts at affection.
So he ends up in Vergil's embrace the second time. Still outrageously pissed about basically nothing, and his fists remain clenched at his side rather than returning the gesture. But his weight slumps forward and his forehead thumps against Vergil's shoulder, unmistakable signs of surrender.
His shoulders tremble and he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back tears. It's fine. He's fine. Vergil can hold him tight as he likes. He just needs a minute.]
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[Vergil can't really say he's necessarily gotten better about it per se. It comes out a little differently now at forty-four than it did at five or eight, after all. But he knows the only way past it is through, and he knows now it's better when he's not riding the flood of emotion all by himself. Even if in some ways it feels awful not to deal with it on his own, it's ultimately better knowing someone is there on the other side of it.]
It's okay, [he says, quietly.]
[He does not urge Nero one way or another on how to handle it any more than he really attempts to rush him along. He lets Nero find his own way through, trusting that he knows it better than Vergil possibly could. Vergil's hand drops from Nero's head to between his shoulders, rubbing a few circles there as Nero shakes and trembles before stilling his hand again. Vergil keeps his own breath steady and even against Nero's more labored, agitated breathing.]
You're okay.
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He lingers there a minute, letting the rage and frustration and everything else rush over him like he's standing still in a rough surf. At a certain point it crests and finally starts to flow away, leaving embarrassment and shame in its wake.
It's a few minutes before Nero moves. It's to bring one of those balled fists forward in a gentle, frustrated thump against Vergil's leg.]
This is so fucking stupid.
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You are being too harsh in your judgment of yourself.
[Now and before. A statement of observation rather than a criticism of his behavior.]
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[That obvious, is it? (Yes.)
He relaxes a little further, slumping a little harder on Vergil. The other fist mirrors the first, but the movement is more of a dull thump than a deliberate action this time.]
It's stupid.
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[Nero couldn't necessarily be faulted if he felt the question wasn't sincere. Most people probably would not ask and would make their safe assumptions about why Nero felt the whole affair has been, in his own words, stupid. But for better or worse, Vergil tries to err on the side of caution when it comes to assumptions pertaining to Nero as best he can.]
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[He stumbles over words. Lifts his forehead and then thumps it down again. Not only is it stupid, it's so stupid he can't really parse it into words.]
I'm not like this. I can fucking handle it when I struggle. I'm not a damn child.
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[The arm around Nero releases before the Yamato is tucked beneath Vergil's arm at his side. He nudges Nero to stand upright a little better, holding Nero's face in both of his hands.]
I know you are not a child, but you have also not been someone's son for any longer than I have been someone's father. So, if I may suggest it, you ought to try extending some of the same grace you have given me in that regard to yourself right now.
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He feels terribly vulnerable with his face between Vergil's hands, brought up to look him in the eye. The expression is something quite similar to worry, in fact.]
It's not you. It's me. [He's not sure why that's the very first thing he needs to say. But there it is.] It's stupid. It's not even a real problem.
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[Although there's a slight furrow in his brow, Vergil does not look at Nero with a critical eye right now.]
Nero, stop. Just listen to me. And before you respond, just take a moment with my words first. A real moment. Not in one ear and out the other.
[One of his hands moves down to Nero's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.]
When I was a boy, all I ever wanted was to please my parents. Nothing made me happier when Mother told me I did something well, or Father said he was proud of me. But nothing made me feel angrier or more frustrated and disappointed in myself than when I felt I fell short of their expectations. Mother barely had to say or do anything for me to know I disappointed her, and I would be in an inconsolable fit of tears. All it took was a few words from Father and I would be stuck replaying them over and over in my head for days afterward. It did not matter to me if it was a mistake that could not have been prevented, or if my own expectations were simply unreasonable, or how foolish I felt for my outbursts later. My reaction was the same each time.
But what I did not understand then is that regardless of whether either of them were ever truly disappointed or I had simply imagined it, they did not think of my mistakes afterward. My mistakes never really mattered, and were never such devastating blows as I thought they were in how they thought of me or what they felt towards me.
[Much as the problem Nero's conjured for himself exists only in his head, so, too, did those problems only exist in Vergil's head. It's a habit Vergil knows he still carries, still becomes lost in once the tide of emotion arises even when a rational part of himself knows better. After all, the memories of his parents still remains colored by those old concerns and hurts even as much as he can recognize now how wrong he was. It's just simply not something that disappears overnight as much as Vergil wishes it could or would be.]
So, whatever outcome you have convinced yourself hangs in the balance, I am telling you that it does not. Whatever opinion you think I might have of you right now, I promise you I do not hold it. [He gives Nero's shoulder another squeeze.] You have nothing to prove to me, Nero. You could have landed absolutely no blows today, and I would not think of you any differently than I did before we sparred.
You are my son. And I will always be proud of you. What you do or do not do will never change that.
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He's had A Parent for all of a few months now, and didn't expect all the immediate, inborn longing for acknowledgment that would come with it. Though it's not a new feeling at all. Nero's felt it since he was little, when he would act on his best behavior for Sister Maria in particular, because it made her smile. Since he'd be obedient for Kyrie's parents whenever they visited. Since he sweat and bled and cried for Credo's approval, torn between how much he craved it and how much he hated falling in line, trying to sand off his edges to fit in with the other knights. The more time passes since his mentor's death, the more Nero wishes he was here so he could ask him if he ever could have made him happy. If he ever did. If it would have stopped him from falling in with Sanctus' plans and betraying Nero, then changing his mind and dying for it.
There's always been Kyrie, but she's always been his peer. He craved for the approval of an authority, an older man especially. But growing up without parents, without anyone but authority that only wanted him when he behaved and followed orders, that was the only way to receive it. What other way would anyone ever approve of him? What would otherwise stop them from rejecting him, too?
Now as plainly as if it was written on his shirt, Vergil's seen how desperately he's trying to prove himself to him, and told him that he does not need to. That he's proud of him. His father is proud of him, regardless of how he fights or what he does.
He can't even lift his fact again for a moment, eyes clenched shut, tears silently trailing down his cheeks.]
Nobody ever-- has been. Nobody wanted me to be me. Just to shut up and fight.
[He sniffles loudly.]
But Dante. And you...
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[He wonders if Nero knows just how different his life would have been had circumstances been so that Vergil would have had the courage to stay with his mother even if not in Fortuna. He knows there's likely been fantasies built up in his head of what it would have been to have two parents who loved him more than anything, but there are probably still yet some things he cannot fathom because it simply is impossible to know so intimately the things one has not experienced firsthand. But Vergil would like to think in those circumstances, where he had it within him to stay instead of running away as he had in reality, Nero would have been permitted to grow up without ever needing to pick up a sword. That he would have been allowed to pursue any number of passions long before learning to wield a blade or firing a gun. And even in the absence of that ideal, Vergil would hope that Nero would know his worth had either one of his parents if not both of them in his life. He did not need to prove anything to anyone because he was loved so tremendously beyond just the moment he was born and whatever time Beatrice was able to give him.]
If all I cared for was your strength and skill in battle, why would I ever watch those videos of those men beating one another senseless with chairs or dropping down on one another from ladders with you when you ask? Why would I see to it that your home here has a place where you can work on your projects at your leisure? Much less, why would I ever allow you to put me in that horrendous sweater on Christmas?
Frankly, if the sweater did not result in me renouncing you as my son, you should remain confident nothing will.
[He's joking a little by the end there with the commentary upon the matching Christmas sweaters to lighten some of the tension he knows Nero must be feeling, but the point is nonetheless a serious one. If all he was ever interested in was knowing his son's strength as a warrior, and it was that alone that sparked any interest in Nero, he wouldn't have wholeheartedly agreed to delay sparring with him like this, and instead taken the time to learn more of his interests and hobbies. Even as Vergil asks perhaps too many questions during the wrestling videos and he somewhat awkwardly just keeps himself out of the way when he pays a visit to Nero in the garage, he's present in those moments for the same reason he's willing to listen to songs that are far from the sort of music he enjoys and tries a sample of food when he's asked. They are things important to his son, and whether or not Vergil necessarily likes any of it or understands their appeal, it still helps him to understand and know Nero better. And it's worth whatever confusion or discomfort or awkwardness that might sometimes come along with it for the sake of knowing Nero because Nero shall always be worth it.]
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[That his father and uncle want him to be safe and happy. Sometimes, it's to an annoying level-- like Dante's bad habit of shoving Nero out of things that really ought to be his business, even for his own good. But that aside, neither of them have ever given him reason to believe he's only worth what strength he has as a fighter. Dante, certainly never. And Vergil... even his far more stern, less social, more combat-focused father has done nothing to suggest it. Not with any of his cognizant actions, anyway. It's not fair to hold Urizen against him, or to extrapolate assumptions about him into unwritten standards that Vergil himself has never tried to impose.
It's as Nero said. A problem he created himself, spun up from his own experiences, the damage he carries from his childhood. On some level he knows that, and yet... there is something incredibly powerful about hearing Vergil say it all explicitly.
He sniffles. Clenches his eyes shut when Vergil touches his face. So this is what it feels like to have your father wipe your tears away... even as part of him is embarrassed for it, another part marvels and treasures the opportunity. And he can't help but crack a smile when Vergil mentions the sweater, which he was inarguably a good sport about. And the wrestling. And all the other shit Nero's been putting him through out of powerful desire to find common ground, to build something solid with his father. The same desire that makes him panic when he feels inadequate at the one thing he does know they both share.
Nero shakes his head a little and reaches up to rub his own eyes with both hands. Building his composure back, little by little.]
I'm not good at believing that kind of stuff. But I'm trying to learn how to. [A swallow, and he peers at Vergil between his fingers. It's just as he said before.] New at this "son" thing, you know?
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[Perhaps he may believe Vergil's word more that he did well if he ends up sharing any of the training itself with Dante. He can't imagine his brother wouldn't praise Nero for getting in the dozen or so strikes he managed, knowing the difficulty Vergil poses with his speed alone. Nero ought to trust his opinion enough to know Dante isn't out to just inflate his ego, and Vergil was not merely saying as much in attempt to soothe a bruised ego.]
You've done well at it so far, [he says, transferring Yamato back to his hand.] Go on and collect your blade. If you're anything like your uncle, I imagine you've worked up an appetite by now.
Unless you'd like to just return home.
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The anger is fading, and he's left to deal with the embarrassment and shame it leaves behind. A ridiculous display by any definition. But he tries hard to apply that grace of his inward, treat it the way he did when Vergil flew off the handle that day they had their hard conversation. Firmly, but kindly: stop beating yourself up. Especially over things that nobody is going to hold against you.
Jeez. They really are father and son, huh...
Still, red-eyed and both physically and emotionally sore, he does look a little hangover-sulky yet as he heads over to pull Red Queen out of the ground.]
I'm starving. [And beat to hell. He really wants to sit down for like, half a day.] What are you thinking?
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As he straps Red Queen to his back, he thinks about it a moment.]
I want noodles. Like a big ol' honking bowl of noodle soup.
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[At his request for a large bowl of noodles, Vergil nods and draws Yamato once more to open a portal. He knows of a place in Epiphany. He's been there a handful of times with Mizu after a morning or afternoon in the library together before parting ways. If the portions lent themselves to Mizu not ordering several bowls, they should be enough for Nero. He waits until Nero joins him again before stepping through the portal and out the other side to the street in Epiphany.]
[The doorway to the shop is just a few steps down from the street itself, and left wide open even in the cooler temperatures of winter. Even standing on the street itself, the heat of the shop can be felt radiating outward. A wooden menu board sits outside just next to the entryway with a listing of the day's specials, pictures included. Vergil walks ahead of Nero, but stops at the entryway to raise the cloth banners hanging down with Yamato for Nero to duck inside first. The majority of seating inside is countertop, right in front of the kitchen area, but there are a few small tables scattered about the rest of the floor that can be moved around with chairs as needed for larger groups.]
Pick what you want, [Vergil says, nodding to the ticket machine near to the entrance with the entirety of the menu available, including appetizers, beverages, and dessert.] Take the ticket to the counter, pay, and have a seat wherever you like.
[Normally, Vergil would be willing to pay for whatever Nero wanted and one look at the prices on the ticket machine would indicate this isn't a particularly expensive menu. But his funds are a little depleted after the holiday, and while he would not necessarily admit such a thing aloud... Vergil is willing to allow mild implication by not making any offer to pay.]
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The shop is nice and warm inside, and it's gonna feel good to sit and drink something hot. He does give Vergil a bit of a side-eye at telling Nero to pay. Normally he's jumping to be the one to pay, but it is a little funny to suggest going out and have Nero cover his own ticket.
No big deal. He can afford it.]
You sit. Do you want anything?
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Jasmine tea is fine... [he says, walking away to sit at one of the tables.]
[He would just ask for water alone considering it's the only item on the menu that doesn't cost anything, but Vergil knows he's not going to be allowed to walk away if he simply declines altogether or tries for something like that. So, an inexpensive tea it is.]
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At least because he's paying, Nero feels no guilt getting exactly what looks good. After some time up at the ticket machine, he pays the clerk and then comes over to sit across from Vergil. His eyes are a little red still, but he looks moderately less glum than earlier. In this lighting it's a little easier to see how scuffed-up he is, though, and there's the unmistakable ginger movements of someone trying to avoid aggravating an injury.
A staff member drops off two waters, and two cups of jasmine tea. Look, Vergil. Nero even takes a sip before he starts looking around for sugar, only relenting when he realizes there isn't any.
Then he kind of just stares at Vergil, not having a clue what to say, to the point he lets out a brief sigh and attempts to fix his no-doubt mussed up hair. Damn. When you really don't want to talk about something, but also it's the only thing on your mind...]
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[Vergil sips at his own tea idly in their silence. He's not looking at Nero, instead watching the movement in the kitchen from their position, but he can feel his son's eyes on him. Glancing at him as he's fixing his hair, Vergil wonders if perhaps he's looking for him to make conversation. Surely not. He knows Vergil is terrible at it generally speaking, and is always far more comfortable with following another's lead. But the silence stretches on after Nero's quiet sigh.]
[Alright, let's see...]
[He idly drums a finger against his cup of tea as he mulls over the possibilities. Anything pertaining to their training session is off-limits as far as Vergil is concerned. Too tricky of a minefield with Nero only just coming down from the height of his emotion. He could mention how and why he knows this place, but that's irrelevant and if Nero cared, he would have asked already. He could ask what Nero ordered for himself, but that's not likely going to lead to much by way of conversation either. Perhaps his plans for the rest of the day? No... But maybe...?]
You've been here for a while now in Folkmore. Do you feel you're settling in?
[Vergil knows Nero has been trying to explore different parts of Folkmore every now and again. He imagines by now he has found places he enjoys and possibly made himself some acquaintances at the very least if not friends.]
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He's expecting to just weather the silence until he comes up with something good to talk about, but is pleasantly surprised when Vergil actually comes up with one first.]
Yeah. I guess so. I don't think it'll ever stop being weird, but...
[Another sigh as he picks up his tea. The heat feels nice even if he doesn't super enjoy the taste.]
I've been thinking about Kyrie lately. I mean, I always think about her, but...
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[It does seem somewhat cruel for the Fox to have not also brought her here with Nero. Much as Vergil thought it cruel for her to have waited so long in bringing Dante here. The again, Kyrie may just simply possess more sense than any of them, and not followed after a fox spirit as they had.]
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He offers a weak little crack of a smile.] Not that I would trade getting to be with you and Dante for her, but... I've never been away from her this long in our whole lives. It's hard. I just hope she really isn't worried about me. Or doesn't even notice I'm gone, however that works.
[Kyrie possesses 1000% more sense than all three of them put together.]
I can't wait for you to meet her.
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I would like to meet her, [he says with a small nod, not bothering with elaborating on the reasons why when Nero knows them well enough all in his own. Instead, he adds with a glance away from Nero,] When she is ready to meet me.
[They haven't spoken about it since that conversation on the balcony of Vergil's old apartment. It's not something that Vergil particularly dwells upon either. Not all that often, anyways. But he remembers what Nero said about that day Vergil attacked him in the garage and made off with his arm. Kyrie had been there, and seen the aftermath.]
[His glance away is not out of self-pity though, or even necessarily out of shame. He would not fault her if it took some time for her to feel comfortable enough to meet him regardless of whatever reassurance Nero offered or how much she trusted his judgment. Vergil would not force the matter any more than he has been or would be interested in forcing a relationship between Nero and himself. But it is an uncomfortable thing no matter what in knowing that the first impression that young woman has of Vergil is what it is even if it is simply the consequences of his choices. So, it is merely a brief glance away. Nothing prolonged or terrible.]
...I suppose I would like the opportunity to apologize to her as well. Even if not a direct apology then at least to provide her with less reason to worry or be fearful of me.
[It's normally not the sort of thing that he would admit aloud to anyone, but he feels it's important enough to swallow his pride and acknowledge it to Nero even if no one else. Then Nero will know that even if Vergil had not responded to Nero's words well that day, in the moment when they were said, he heard the entirety of what he said and not just the part meant to settle Vergil well enough to hear the primary point of wanting to trust him. Even if he does not dwell upon it much, Vergil's had more time to think on the repercussions of his actions beyond the immediate and the obvious. And he knows he wronged Kyrie and Nico as well in what he did that day, just in a far less direct manner.]
[He takes another sip of his tea.]
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After all, the direct harm was done to Nero, but he passed out so fast he barely had time to be register what happened, much less be frightened. Kyrie (and Nico, too) had to find him facedown in a pool of his own blood, tourniquet his arm, get him to the hospital, and spend over a week terrified he was going to die. That Vergil considers that, that he's thought about it more than not at all, that he wants her to feel safe around him before all else...
That right there? That's fucking progress, baby. And he couldn't be more proud of Vergil for making that jump on his own volition. He's genuinely smiling as he speaks.]
I won't lie, she's gonna want to give you an earful. But I'll talk to her first. Once she's spoken her mind she'll be as warm as ever. And oh my god, her cooking is so good...
[He's getting that gooey soft look in his eyes again. But it's not all directed at Kyrie this time. He looks genuinely put at ease by this conversational revelation, like the last of the foul mood he was in has been banished.
(It is slightly fucked up, he thinks, that he's going to have to talk his girlfriend down from being pissed at the father who ripped his fucking arm off. But in a "this sure is my family" kind of fucked up way that he's starting to get more used to.)]
She'll be happy our family has grown above everything else.
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[At Nero's comment about the growth of their family, Vergil's smile does not fade, not exactly, but his gaze is momentarily a little more wistful. For so much of Vergil's life, he's really only ever known loss. First it was father, and then soon after his mother and brother. The only home he'd ever known. Beatrice was there for a time, but he was the one who denied himself that future out of his own fear and insecurities of being able to protect it. And in doing that, he unknowingly both lost her forever as well as his son. It was much the same with Dante in that he could not take his brother's hand, could not reconcile what he knew to be true with what Dante proposed. He lost the Yamato. He lost his memories, his very life. It is a wonder, frankly, that Vergil found any reason to carry on, to claw his way back to the human world and reclaim his blade after that much loss.]
[But somehow by the end of it, he found himself again. More than just the broken things that survived and carried on the day his mother died, but the whole of himself. He found his brother again. He found his son. And for all the aspects of this place that Vergil finds to be tedious and irritating, that sense of loss he might have felt at having to leave behind his son again because he knew he could not have him or that future unless he cleaned up the mess he created... He's managed to ultimately avoid that here. He's had time to get to know Nero, and realize there is a place for him in Nero's life after all. He's grown closer with his brother, too. The pair of them trying so hard to find another way beyond fighting to connect and understand one another, and these days only getting into petty squabbles with one another as siblings are wont to do. And he's found... Well, there's really little denying it anymore, is there? Even if it still feels impossible to say so directly, he's found love.]
[His smile fades then, although it's not the most serious of expressions that takes up residence when it does. It's more a calm neutrality that arises, the look that no doubt Nero has come to learn signals Vergil has something to say that is important, but is not something that should raise alarm or concern.]
On that note, there is something that I have been meaning to tell you for a while now. There just has not been...a good time to tell you until now.
[It certainly would not have been the time to say anything when Nero first arrived and there was so much they needed to sort through first. It also would not have done well for Vergil to make mention of it too soon after their conversation. Much of that needed to settle and simmer, and a routine of sorts needed to be found.]
[But Vergil has also been uncertain whether or not it was appropriate to tell Nero. He hasn't been concerned Nero would somehow be upset that Vergil was not pining after Beatrice. He loved her. Some part of him still loves her and always will. She was his first love, after all, and the mother to his child. There is nothing that could possibly remove her from his heart like that. But even if she were alive and within reach, Vergil would not presume to rekindle something with her. No doubt she would be a different person than she was back then and likely moved on a long time ago. He imagines the most they might be is friends if she could find it within her to forgive him for abandoning her in the first place. He also does not even particularly worry himself necessarily over Nero's opinion of Mizu. While he wouldn't necessarily categorize Mizu as one of Nero's favorite people, there does not appear to be contempt or disdain there. He's not opposed to her, at the very least. And beyond that, Vergil trusts that Mizu is no more interested in parenting Nero than Nero is interested in being parented by her.]
Mizu and I...
[No, the hold up on Vergil's part has been more on the words for what they are. He's avoided any such label for so long now. Even when they were just friends to one another, he always couched it in being sparring partners. As though their interest in one another or the camaraderie they were building was rooted solely in their ability and interest in fighting one another, and had not naturally blossomed into other things. It seemed better to him not to presume anything in calling Mizu a friend lest the feeling was not reciprocated and Vergil truly was a means to an end. Since their relationship evolved and their intimacy deepened...]
[Well, this is not something that will last beyond this world. At some point, Vergil will leave with his family, and Mizu will return to her world to seek her revenge. Words have power and weight, more than most give them credit for. Vergil does not believe he could withstand the weight of calling Mizu or what they have something only for it to be taken from him regardless of who bears responsibility for that loss.]
We are more than just friends to one another. We have been for a few months now.
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But speaking of that, Vergil changes the subject, and though Nero at first looks quite concerned by the graveness with which he says he needs to tell him something (force of habit, okay), it turns out to be... well. It's pretty surprising, actually.]
Like, you're dating?
[For a moment, Nero looks deeply, deeply puzzled by this information. Vergil? Is dating someone? He doesn't seem the type. Shit, he doesn't seem the type so much Nero remains kind of surprised he even exists. That's such a weird swerve that the fact Vergil is dating a guy kind of takes a huge second place, though that's surprising as well.
And then, perhaps frustratingly for how much difficulty Vergil had preparing for the topic, Nero shrugs.]
Cool. Good for you, I guess.
[He's restricted from saying more as a staff member arrives with his order-- an absolutely massive bowl of curry pork ramen, and gyoza on the side. He thanks the server and waits until they depart to crack out the chopsticks, or make any further comment.]
Did he swordfight you until you asked him out? Heh.
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[...Well, alright then. If that's it then there's no need for Vergil to try and illicit more. Especially not when it comes to the questions he doesn't even know where it begin in answering.]
[Vergil glances at the staff as they set the food down in front of Nero, and he's vaguely surprised it's only the one bowl of ramen regardless of the portion sizes here.]
[His nose wrinkles at Nero's question.]
No...
[...Maybe a little.]
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Oh, god, ugh. Fucking gross. (Ah, so this is what it's like to be disgusted at the thought of your parent being a sexual person...)]
Do I need to give him The Talk for you? I will, you just say the word. [He's mostly teasing, but he's also really not.]
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And suddenly I find myself burdened with deep regret over having told you...
[He does not mean that.]
Your uncle gave me less trouble than this when I told him.
[He does mean that though. This sort of commentary came later, not immediately.]
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[At least he's learned to recognize Vergil's extremely dry deadpan sarcasm.
He stirs up his ramen and takes a bit in his chopsticks.]
I'm barely even trying over here.
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[He rolls his eyes before taking another sip of his tea. Vergil is only mildly relieved that Mizu and Dante do not appear to speak to one another all that much. At least, not that he's heard. Dante would likely grow comfortable enough with her over time to make similar remarks. It's bad enough Vergil must listen to them, but he's Dante's twin. Mizu does not deserve being subjected to that sort of...humor.]
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[Nero laughs and shoots Vergil a wink and a fingergun over his bowl. Then he's given at least a brief respite for a moment as Nero takes a few bites, simply too hungry to continue trolling his father right now.
When he's done chewing and swallowing he'll offer just one more comment on the matter.]
Well, congrats, I guess. It's really none of my business, for the most part. As long as you're happy, good for you.
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[He nods a little to Nero's words after he's had a few bites, but says nothing in response. Vergil finds the offer of congratulations a bit odd, but there's nothing he finds objectionable about Nero recognizing that Vergil's relationship with Mizu is largely none of his business. And as for the matter of happiness...?]
[When Dante asked Vergil if he was happy with Mizu, he didn't know exactly how to answer. Not to say that he was unhappy in any way, but it had only been a couple of weeks at that point. It was difficult to tell with how fresh and new everything had been if it was the novelty or if he truly had found happiness with Mizu. Never mind that... Well. Happiness is a fleeting thing in the majority of Vergil's experiences, often slipping from his fingertips before he can even realize it's right there in front of him. Assuming that he even allowed for it in the first place.]
[But Vergil finds himself astonishingly happy here in Folkmore. Not just with Mizu. With Dante and Nero. With his life here. There's a part of him that keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to happen where some part of this dream is stripped away from him, but it's grown a little quieter as of late.]
[Vergil doesn't push for further conversation to allow Nero to eat.]
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Nero is content to eat for a bit, filling in the void that is his growling stomach with a massive quantity of curry broth, marinated pork, noodles, and all the toppings. He takes a break for gyoza, offering Vergil some if he'd like to nibble. Amazing how a bit of food can turn his mood around so quickly.
Not that he's completely forgotten about the fiasco earlier. He's still pretty embarrassed at his meltdown, and wondering if he ought to apologize for it. Though he'd admittedly also just like to drop it forever and pretend it didn't happen. Shuffling in his seat, one of the severe bruises across his back announces itself with a twinge, and Nero visibly winces at the motion, squirming a little until he can get comfortable again.
Okay. Maybe he can't really pretend it didn't happen just yet...]
I... didn't get a chance to, but. I'm getting better at holding my Devil Trigger.
[Or he could just directly bring it up.]
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Good. [They'd already spoken of the importance of increasing his endurance, and it was already on Nero's mind when they had. So, of course, Vergil approves of that and is glad to hear Nero is following through on what he's expressed wanting to do. He pauses a moment before asking,] Are you pushing yourself until you cannot hold it any longer, or are you leaving it when you are feeling the beginnings of fatigue?
[It's more a point of curiosity than anything. There is, unfortunately, no real manual given to anyone of their mixed heritage that explains the best methodology in accessing Devil Trigger and maximizing its power.]
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He makes a bit of a face at the question, mostly because he has to answer:] The first one. [Not a big surprise, given how Vergil just watched him nearly burn himself out physically, too.]
At home in my room, mostly. Not sure why it has to make me look butt-ass naked...
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...You're not embarrassed by it, are you?
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I dunno. [He says, finally.] Demons don't really give a shit what I look like, so it doesn't bother me in action but...
[Another crookedly awkward purse of his lips, inverse of the first.] Not like I can change it if it's meant to be my true self.
[Which is all to say, yes. He's not super confident in that skin yet.]
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You will grow accustomed to it with time. [And if not with time, well. Vergil's certain it will not lack in...appeal for others. At least that's been Vergil's experience. But that's something for Nero to discover on his own, and not to be discussed between father and son.] For what it is worth, however, I believe it suits you. It reflects your demonic heritage. You bear traits similar to me and your grandfather. But it still reflects your humanity.
[Which, yes, is because of his human blood, but Vergil chooses the word humanity to describe it instead for a reason.]
It is both your power and your strength made manifest. I see it as something to take pride in.
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[He realizes a moment too late that that might sound like he's dismissing what Vergil said, or jabbing his own devil's appearance. Which he is, but... it's a little funny, isn't it? Demons aren't going to think it's funny when he's crushing their skulls in his palms or snapping them in half like an overextended measuring tape, which is what really matters. Nero's just going to have to get used to looking buff and nude.
It's something else he says that brings him back around though.]
You think I look like you? And Sparda?
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Of course, [he says so matter-of-fact, one should think it the obvious comparison. Not that Vergil thinks it entirely unreasonable for not seeing the similarities with Sparda given that the Order possessed some...unique interpretations for his visage. It's only been recently that Nero has been afforded the opportunity to see Sparda as he actually was in human form the family portrait at the very least.] Do you disagree?
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Well, yeah. I mean, like this... [He gestures between them, indicating their faces. Yeah, it's not escaped his attention that he's a dead ringer for his father, to the point they might have guessed they were related even if they didn't know it for a fact. So many times, Nero sees his own face looking back at him-- like with that nose wrinkle, for instance.]
Can't say I got much of a look at your devil, [when he was spiking you into the ground like a football] but... other than being blue, I don't know.
[And then, he lets slip a very telling remark, perhaps still thinking of the earlier spar.] I feel so far apart sometimes.
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I... [he starts, faltering a little. Vergil remains uncertain where to start or how much to share, and deeply uncomfortable with the level of vulnerability that it feels it takes to say anything at all. But Vergil also does not wish to meet Nero's confession with silence. That would be far too cruel of a choice to make so willingly.] I know it may be difficult to believe from what you know or have been told, but I am...familiar. With that feeling.
[Vergil doesn't know what has been discussed between Nero and Dante precisely, but an explicit conversation isn't even likely needed. He's seen enough of both twins at this point to tell the differences in how they fight, relaying even just a little of the differences in how they've each grown into their power. But even setting that aside, Vergil sits confident in his own strength and power, outclassing most that Nero will ever come to face. The idea of anyone who so readily accepted his powers, who sees the devil within him to be just as much himself than a separate entity, bearing that sort of insecurity that Nero acknowledged seems incongruent.]
Father was... He was not some savior of humanity to me. [Not in the sense of how the Order attempted to raise Nero to think of him as being, and not in the manner of it being his greatest accomplishment, nor a legacy that Vergil aspired to uphold someday. It was never about that.] He was our father. Our protector. So long as he was there, we knew we would be safe because he was stronger than anything that might try to threaten us. To tell you the truth, I believed that so strongly, I was likely the last among the three of us left behind to accept that Father was not returning after he left. He was everything that I wanted to grow to be, and it seemed unfathomable to me that he could ever...
[Vergil waves a slight hand. He accepted it a long time ago that his father was likely dead in the best case scenario. In the worst, however... He did not like to entertain that scenario.]
I think because of that, Dante always believed I wanted to be as strong and powerful as Father, but the truth is, after Mother died, I wanted to surpass him.
[It's there that Vergil feels the limits of what he's willing to part with both in this less private setting, and in general. There's much of his life that Nero does not know, does not need to know. But it is perhaps enough for him to understand that Vergil's desire for power began somewhere, and not somewhere out of malice for others.]
That feeling you have can be all-consuming and blinding, but it is important you guard yourself against it.
Each time I knocked you to the ground, you rose to your feet again. But rather than doing so out of the strength you possess, you did it out of anger and spite towards yourself. You focused on your mistakes not for the sake of learning from them, but to punish yourself because that feeling inside you told you that you were being inadequate. A disappointment.
And in doing so, you did not just lose sight of the fact you landed a dozen blows today against an opponent with greater mastery over his power and abilities, and has been fighting demons far longer than you have been alive. You were driven to self-destruct because that would have been more tolerable to you than that feeling continuing its endless refrain.
[Vergil glances away from Nero then, pausing a moment and folding his arms loosely across his chest. He does not want Nero to be like him. He wants Nero to surpass him. Not in strength or fighting prowess, but in the ways that truly matter.]
I told you that you were born with all the strength and power you will ever need to possess. It is only a matter of learning to wield them, which will come with time and practice.
You must find ways to remember that even when you've made mistakes or failed to meet the expectations you set for yourself.
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But once again, Mr. Precision has absolutely cut to the heart of the issue. It's a diagnosis he wouldn't have been willing to hear half an hour ago, but an undeniably true one. It wasn't strength that made him keep getting up today. It was fear. Fear of disappointing Vergil, fear of proving himself inadequate, fear that giving up meant failing meant a permanent diminishing of himself.]
I know you're right. [Painfully right. He'd rather have pushed himself unconscious today than thrown in the towel, and being made to do so set him off hard.
And yeah, he is young, he is inexperienced with his powers, he IS at a disadvantage as far as sheer genetics go (a thing he will never admit out loud and never wants to hear, even though he's sure they both know it's a factor.) But...]
And I know it'll take time, but- it's hard to be patient. When I'm not strong enough, people die. They have died, because I wasn't strong enough. I can get over wounded pride, but if something happened to you guys, or Kyrie...
[That's not really something he can solve. Vergil can't solve it either. So all Nero can do is give him a brief shrug and a shake of his head.]
I don't know how I learn to handle those stakes. I have to anyway.
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[So, Vergil hums his quiet agreement.]
If either your uncle or I knew how, we would tell you.
[Because Vergil isn't going to pretend as though either one of them have figured it out even now. Of his life that he was himself and in control of it, Vergil spent it largely isolated and alone. As a child, he did not fully reject the help of strangers out of recognition there were simply things an eight year old could not accomplish on his own. But he never stayed. He took what he needed and he left again and again until Beatrice, and he hadn't possessed the courage by then to stay with her. As for Dante, he has friends. The people that he trusts above all the others as far as Vergil can tell are Lady and Trish, but those are bonds he forged in hardship and tragedy. Those are not people he found for himself and connected with. He would be just as alone as Vergil otherwise.]
But you do not need to figure it out on your own. Dante and I will not allow what was taken from us to be taken from you.
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He longs to take Vergil's statement that they are there to protect him as reassurance, but it comes with a fatal hole that he can't reconcile.]
That goes both ways. I'm not gonna sit back and let anybody else take over protecting what's mine to protect. And I'm really not gonna let anybody else die for my sake.
[He gives Vergil a serious look.]
If we're doing it together, then we're all together. Don't leave me behind or put me on the sidelines. Let me help you, too.
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I cannot promise you what will or will not come to pass in the future. The most I can say is that it is not my intention to leave you or be separated from you again so long as it is within my power to prevent it.
[He shakes his head a little.]
Truthfully, Nero, I did not wish to leave you in the human world and return to the Underworld. [Vergil's lips purse as he swallows thick. There was no part of him that wanted to leave Nero with only a promise, and certainly not for the Underworld, which he has had his fill of a long time ago.] But there are...
[He sighs, breaking the gaze with Nero. Shame and guilt creep into the back of his throat, leaving his mouth dry and words unable to be formulated. One would think it would not be so had to acknowledge. After all, V had alluded to Vergil's various sins to Nero just before the end almost akin to a deathbed confessional should the worst come to pass, and he was unable to succeed in his mission to make himself whole again. It's not as though Nero is ignorant of the fact Vergil has a past of choosing his survival above all else, of neglecting his humanity for the sake of power. And it's not as though there was not more than just the simple act of attacking Nero that led him to need to hear Vergil say out loud that he would do nothing to bring harm to Nero. Surely that knowledge played its role as well. But even so, Vergil finds himself stumbling here and now, as he does not even know how to articulate it. Then again, even if he could, would it make a difference to Nero?]
I do not believe it be protecting you by barring you from anything, [he says, looking back up to Nero once more. Whatever he was about to sayβand he isn't even sure himselfβis dropped.] You are capable of making your own choices, and a stubborn enough fool like your father to make them even when others have placed obstacles to stop you. You would only put yourself in a more vulnerable position in that circumstance than if I did not make decisions like that for you.
But I need you to understand this, Nero: we will always work together to prevent it from reaching that point, but as your father, I will do whatever it takes to protect you. [And that may mean, in those extreme circumstances they would have exhausted every avenue to prevent, there may be no affording Nero a choice, or other choices Nero does not agree with Vergil making will need to be made.] Asking me not to do that would be akin to asking me to stop my own heart from beating.
[Vergil says it in more words than necessary, leaving the possibility for it to be lost even if the message is as simple as it is. Vergil loves Nero. More than anything or anyone. Clumsy as Vergil often is to show it and impossible as it is for him to express it directly by just saying it, Vergil loves Nero with an unmatched fierceness that would have him tearing down the very heavens themselves if that's what it took to keep him safe.]
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[It's the whole reason he's in Folkmore too, after all: looking for a way to reunite with his stranded father and uncle. And the first thing they'd both done is give him guff about not staying behind. Nero suspects that's going to be a pattern that plays out many, many more times, come what may... and now Vergil's been fairly warned about it.
It's still such a strange thing, to have someone say they'll protect you. You, specifically, because you're you, not because you're just a child or their responsibility. He gazes into his bowl and tries to process it. He thinks of Credo, and a thick knot forms in his throat.]
I won't let it happen. I won't let it get to that point.
[And if it does? It won't. It's just that simple. It cannot.]
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[Vergil doesn't really know if it's actually possible for that to be the case. After so much bloodshed and loss, it seems difficult to believe that regardless of anyone's will, things will not reach that point yet again. But it can never be said that it got to that point because none of them tried. All three of them will fight like hell for it. Whatever it takes.]
Use that next time you train with me, [he says with a slight nod.] Don't get lost in your head thinking about trying to keep up with me, or with Dante. Don't dwell on what might happen if you fail or do not meet your expectations. Focus on why it is you are doing what you are doing.
[Nero needs to think about motivates him as being what he is protecting, not what he might lose. That is the righteous sort of anger that will allow him to press forward and grow.]
You will find your strength then to get back up regardless of how many times you are knocked down. If you can even be knocked down.
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[It's a much better thing to focus on, though Nero knows that frustration and a perceived lack of progress are both slippery slopes for him. He can go careening back down the trail of feeling inferior and getting furious about it all too easily. But maybe he can try to catch himself next time.
He shoots Vergil a brief, somewhat sheepish edge of a smile. Honestly, he's pretty impressed he's been this eloquent in this conversation. Like he clearly wasn't going to get the disappointed dressing-down he feared, but Vergil's unusually astute on this topic in particular. From experience, no doubt... but it's something nice that he's able to offer his son in a time of need. All in all, Nero's glad that they did bring it up.
He does scoff at that last bit, though.] Yeah, think it's safe to say I can be knocked down. I can barely fucking sit still, my ass is so bruised.
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You may wish to remember your bruised ass the next time you accuse me of being old then.
[It's said with a sly smile and a light kick to the shin under the table in the sort of playful roughhousing Dante really only ever seems to pull out of Vergil when his mood isn't too sour to find Dante's attempts at play obnoxious. But here it is now, directed at Nero as if it were the most natural thing in the world.]
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But oh, no. He's not gonna take this lying down. (Because as soon as he lies down he's not getting up again.]
Oh my god. Did you just swear? Maybe I did hit you pretty hard...
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Just because I don't share in the amount of vulgarity you prefer to employ does not mean I never do.
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[He's really more of a like... "scum," "curses," "inconceivable" kind of guy. Maybe a "damnation" if he's feeling spicy.]
Say "fuck."
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[But then...!]
Fuck.
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[Too bad Dante is never going to believe this... Nero shakes his head and works out the last few snorts before taking a sip of water.]
Amazing. I think it works for you.
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Finish your noodles, child.
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Instead, he tucks back into his noodles and hesitates a moment before coming up with something else to say.]
Thanks. Dad.
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[He feels...good about today, he reflects.]
[For as little as he (hopefully) displayed to Nero, Vergil had some nerves going into this training session with him. Vergil knew their fight atop the Qliphoth was not reflective of his own skill and strength, for one. The potential for such inaccurate expectations easily set the stage for something precarious all on its own. Factor in that it was the first time the pair were to clash with one another physically since agreeing to put off sparring with one another until there was a degree of comfort... Well, it was hard for Vergil not to feel a degree of nerves about the whole affair. And, of course, Vergil did not like witnessing Nero's breakdown when it finally erupted. What parent could watch their child tear themselves apart the way Nero had and do so without their own heart aching as well? It was only an additional layer in knowing that Nero was afflicted with a similar anxiety that had hounded Vergil for most of his life, and still does in moments when he's allowed his guard to lower or unwanted reminders arise.]
[But Vergil felt... Well, it may be an oversimplification all that happened today and what Vergil did, and it feels a bit foolish to think of it this way, but he's felt like a dad today. Like he earned it this time when Nero says it. Even with the anticipatory anxiety and the moments of uncertainty and the discomfort of vulnerability, he was able to guide Nero through today and helped him through hot, angry tears to full belly laughter. So, he felt like a dad. Feels like one even now while Nero focuses on eating and Vergil sits in companionable silent with his water. He feels so oddly grateful to Nero not just for giving him the word to describe how it feels in this moment, but for allowing him to help in the first place. For trusting him enough to make it better, not make it worse.]
[Once Nero is done eating, there is nothing else to do in the shop, but leave the dishes behind for the staff to bus. They leave behind the warmth of the noodle shop and step back out onto the chilly street. With home so close, there's no sense in using the Yamato, and so they walk instead.]
[They are only a few paces away from the noodle shop before Vergil reaches over and ruffles Nero's hair. It's briefβand nothing too rough given the soreness throughout most of his body stillβbut it's a silent gesture of affectionate gratitude. There will not always be days like today, but it is these sorts of days that Vergil can easily understand why they are what make the harder ones worth it.]
BACKDATED TO CHRISTMAS
I think I may owe you an apology to go with this.
Happy Christmas
Trish
[He will find a neatly wrapped package containing leatherbound copies of The Count of Monte Cristo and The Aeneid, for some reason, a tin of sardines.]
text; un: dante
( a longshot if there ever was one, but. he'll give it an hour β maybe two before he just... tries to figure out his way back on his own. )
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[Opening it though, Vergil is confused to see a message not from one of Thirteen's aspects, but from his brother. Barely a second passes from finishing reading the message before Vergil is scooting his chair back. The Russian Blue placed on the table in front of him, Vergil stands and collects the Yamato. She swats a paw after him having been almost asleep in his lap, but he's left the table and out the door as quickly as he can, pushing a native spirit on their way into the CatfΓ© out of his way without apology. Once on the street, he looks off in the distance, spying the island off in the far distance. Vergil snaps his Relic shut, pocketing it, and opens a portal.]
[Never Fade is one of the smaller areas of Folkmore, but it's still non-specific as far as locations are concerned. So, it's at the edge of Cruel Summer that Vergil walks through to on the other side of his portal. It barely has time to close behind him before Vergil has slipped into his demonic skin and taken off for the island above to try and scan for his brother rather than wasting time trying to get a more specific location out of him, or finding him on foot. Hopefully, Dante hasn't been foolish enough to go wandering into the tunnels and expecting Vergil to find him easily that way...]
[Thankfully, within a few minutes, Vergil spots that familiar mop of hair and red coat from above. It's only a small relief to find him, however, because although there's no scent of blood on the air, Dante said he needed Vergil to come get him. The lack of blood is simply a rule-out of a few reasons why Dante may need him, but it's not enough to say nothing is amiss. Following the current of the wind up there, Vergil sharply turns his trajectory downwards to Dante. Vergil lands a few feet away with a forced calm rather than slamming down for a landing as he otherwise would like to do for the sake of just getting to his little brother sooner. He's barely touched the ground before his demonic skin falls away from him and he's making his way closer.]
I got here as soon as I could. [He places a hand on Dante's arm once he's in reach, his grip firm. There's a furrow in his brow that one could easily mistake as anger, but it's really just worry and concern. Torn between his concern for Dante and wariness for their surroundings, Vergil opts to not scrutinize his brother for the moment and instead takes stock of any signs of others skulking about first.] Are you hurt?
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It takes him a second or two to really realize his brother is here, but. When he spots him, his steps slow and he just stands there. Staring. Watching the way his brother so effortlessly slips out of his own demonic skin and makes his way towards him β catches that expression there on his face and, as if instinct, he lowers his gaze.
When the touch comes to his arm, he looks over to his brother's hand β hears the concern there in his voice as he asks if he's hurt. Taking a second for himself, he shakes his head. Just... needs a second to figure out what to say here now. Not because he didn't think Vergil would just leave him here. But because he didn't really think his brother would get the message, never mind in a relatively timely manner. )
I want to go home. But I don't feel like falling from the island and hoping I don't go kersplat on the ground.
( He still doesn't look up to Vergil as he says that, his voice seeming tired. )
Sorry.
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Spare me your apologies, [he says, releasing Dante's arm. Vergil place a hand at the center of Dane's back briefly before stepping away from him.] Unless you have some wrongdoing I'm yet unaware of that you'd like to confess, I've no need of it.
[Unsheathing Yamato, Vergil opens a portal that will take them back home, more particularly straight to Dante's bedroom. He looks back to Dante, not taking a step into the portal until Dante is through to the other side.]
Come, little brother.
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So he stands there, eyes falling shut for a moment and, when they open, he sees the portal there in front of them β sees the way his brother waits for him and, smile so incredibly faint, he slowly nods before he starts dragging his feet towards it. )
Thanks.
( And into the portal he goes. Normally he'd go whee right now or make some dumb joke, but. He doesn't have it in him to at the moment. Just wants to be "home" here. )
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[Vergil studies his brother for a moment, trying to puzzle out what could have possibly happened. He's not hurt, not physically, but there's no denying that there's something a little off about Dante right now. There isn't any scent of alcohol on him, and nothing in his movements would suggest he's inebriated right now anyways, so it can't be that he somehow finally found himself over his limit. Never Fade is close to Cruel Summer, but it doesn't play host to any particularly dangerous wildlife, and even if it did, it's unlikely that it would result in this sort of behavior.]
I will not ask what happened, [he says, leaving it to implication that he doesn't believe he'd get much of a straight answer out of Dante right now and acknowledging that Dante likely does not wish to speak about it at much length at all,] but I will ask if you're certain you're alright.
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His room is as it always is just with the addition of a dart board hung on the wall now. A few darts lodged into the board, one in the center of the bullseye. Whether or not that was a shot made or simply the youngest son of Sparda jabbing it in there before heading out, well. Who is to say. But he stands there for a moment β looks over to his jukebox before he's slowly looking back over to his brother and catches the way the portal closes.
Blue eyes settling their gaze on Vergil, he takes a second to mull over how to answer that. )
I just... ( He takes a second. Sighs. Shakes his head then as he looks back around his room. ) ...yeah. I don't know. Could you stay a bit?
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[He does not push for Dante to talk right now about what happened or what's going on in his head. Nor does he try to engage in conversation in general, not even a comment about some bit of clutter he may find aggravating or critique on how he's made his bed. The most Vergil does is nod to the space beside him for Dante to also sit.]
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You've always been better at it. ( He pauses, clarifies then. ) Being more devil than man. I mean... I like to think I'm ok at it. But sometimes...
( Licking over his lips, he sighs β gives a slow shake of his head. )
I got overwhelmed. Felt like I was slipping away from myself. When I came out of it, I thought of when we were kids. You know. When I'd get a nightmare and you'd chase them away because you're not scared of any monster?
( Another sigh, he leans against his brother a little more, gaze staring across his room. )
I need you, too. Always have.
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I brought you home, but you're the one who pulled yourself back, Dante.
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The gentle strokes to his hair are appreciated though and they help in calming him down further. In having him feel more outside of his head and not so hyper focused on what he may or may not still be feeling. Heβs usually a lot better at it. At not letting himself slip up like that, but. Getting overwhelmed happens sometimes and, when it does, heβs always left feeling tired after. )
I didnβt pull you away from anything, did I?
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[He is going to have to bring something with him though the next time he goes to the CatfΓ©. No doubt that cat is going to hold a bit of a grudge of him abruptly disturbing her sleep in his lap. But it doesn't merit mentioning. For one, how much time he spends at the CatfΓ© is his business. For another, he's also not wrong about it not mattering what he was doing. Dante reached out to him for help, and there was nothing that could have kept Vergil from him afterward.]
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Hey. Youβre a pretty ok brother.
( Eyes falling shut again, he sighs as he lets himself relax there against Vergil. )
I feel wiped.
( Emotionally drained mostly. )
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[But it has gotten a little easier as of late. Vergil's instincts don't feel as though they're running in such direct opposition to his brother as they once did.]
Are you hungry at all, or would you rather just rest?
[He doesn't suggest sleep directly. Not that Vergil doesn't believe if Dante were to let himself sleep right now, he wouldn't benefit from it, but Vergil also knows there's probably too much rattling around in his brother's mind on the whole to be too terribly receptive to it. He isn't entirely clueless when it comes to Dante's habits after all. Living in such tight quarters as they had initially had helped in that regard, at least.]
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Think I'm gonna have to go with the resting option. Might just spill my food all over me.
( Super unattractive for anyone to see. At that, however, he slowly lets himself ease back against the bed and just lays there, as he is, legs hung over the bed there while he remains there next to his brother. Arm draping itself across his eyes, he sighs and it's an emotionally tired one β lets himself gently find his breathing again. Even as he does, his other hand, the one closes to Vergil, gently holds to his brother, as if a lifeline or a means to reassure himself that his brother is here with him. )
Maybe I'm just getting old. Taking so much out of me.
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That form is more powerful than what you're used to, [he says, resting his palms against one another.] And you spend the entire time you're in it fighting it, don't you?
[He lightly wraps his fingers around the back of his hands to fully clasp them together. Vergil can't necessarily speak to how the other, lesser form felt for Dante. For Vergil, it never felt any different to him than when he is in his human form, much as the same is true of his newer, stronger demonic form. One is the exact same as the other with no distinction between them. It is as much Vergil's true self if perhaps not still arguably more than as he is right now. But Dante's always held the devil within him to be something different, something separate. A combatant within him. So, Vergil would imagine fending off whatever it is about his demonic forms that he feels he must fight is likely easier in the lesser of the two forms. He's had more practice at it, but it's not nearly as much demonic power.]
You're not old, you're just pushing past your limits. [Over his shoulder, he looks at Dante. His expression is not soft, nor tender, but neither is it the angry, confused look he gave Dante again and again throughout their time in and atop Temen-ni-gru.] I'm not going to tell you what to do.
[While he doesn't know the exact reasoning why given the potential list of reasons, Vergil knows Dante won't listen to him regardless of what he says. It will just be a brush off or an argument, and possibly both if Vergil pushes just a little too hard.]
But what you're doing now isn't going to work forever. [Arguably, it's starting to fail now, but Vergil is not about to pile it on. Dante will surely do enough of that later if he's not already doing so now. Vergil puts a hand on Dante's knee beside him.] Take it from someone who already knows the consequences of denying what you are.
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He rolls on his side towards his brother. Lays there in silence, hand still there holding to his brother where he normally would his bear when he was little. When he finally comes to speak, itβs soft β vulnerable and almost as if itβs meant for no one else but Vergil to hear. )
Iβm scared, Verge. Scared of what could happen if I lost control.
( Maybe he wouldnβt really be able to hurt his brother much. But Nero? Anyone else? If he ever did, heβd never forgive himself and already has a lot he doesnβt necessarily forgive himself for as it is, regardless of whether or not it was really his fault.
He tells his brother this not because heβs looking for a lecture or a reason to brush him off. But because heβs his brother and heβs scared. )
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[Reasonably, Vergil cannot tell him to be unafraid. In that form, while Dante is likely to fatigue himself quickly and return to his human form if he were to truly unleash the extent of his power, that would result in a significant amount of harm. Vergil doesn't think Dante could ever walk away from something like that unscathed. Even in a place like this where death never takes and counts even less to the most callous among them, it would change him deeply. His heart is simply too soft, too human.]
I know, I know... [It's said without any sort of blame or accusation behind it, just understanding for Dante's nature.] But you can never hope to truly possess control so long as you remain in fear of it, Dante. You know that...
[Such is the nature of devils. Strength and power are what matter most to them. A devil arm would never submit itself to a creature it viewed as lesser than it, which is what makes them impossible for humans to wield. The same holds true for Dante's demonic side. So long as Dante refuses to accept it and fears it down to his core like that, it shall rule over him one way or another. And it becomes a matter of when and not if it shall take more control for itself.]
[Vergil turns his gaze forward again as he mulls something over for a moment, uncertain if he should speak of it or not. In the end, he decides to say nothing. The less their father is involved in this conversation perhaps the better.]
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It's only after a moment that he thinks to speak. Soft. )
You won't let that happen. Right?
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I won't let it happen. So long as there's breath in my body, [he says, giving Dante's shoulder a light squeeze,] I won't let it happen.
[He can do nothing about the matter of Dante's sense of control over himself. Not without Dante accepting a degree of tutelage from him, and even that still remains up to Dante to do it. But he can at least pose as an obstacle to prevent the worst from happening should Dante lose control.]
Nightmares [cw: violence/gore, trauma, emeto]
Feeble human. Worthless. Helpless. Useless.
Nero looks up in time to watch Credo fall. His body hits the ground and the Qliphoth root follows, slurping up the last of the blood as he withers into nothing. Behind him stands that fucker Urizen, pacing closer, a dozen cold eyes piercing Nero with their gaze.
Cursed, the moment you were brought into this world in that wretched form.
He's not sure if it's better or worse, now that he knows. "Dad! Please! Stop!"
Who are you to claim my bloodline?
Well, fine, if that's how it's gonna fucking be. "I'll kick your fucking ass, Vergil! Listen to me!"
You are nothing but an insignificant, worthless pest. I will dispose of you like the insect you are.
He's not sure who he's looking at anymore as the eyes bore into him. Which voice he's hearing, laughing as the roots tug on his limbs. Whose hand grasps his right forearm and, as he screams and bones snap, begins to pull-]
[Nero awakens with a start, kicking so hard he nearly falls off the bed. He's drenched in sweat, even as he's tangled up in the sheets from an unconscious effort to kick them off. The whole room lurches around him, and then the movement echoes in his stomach-- and it's with a loud thump and a crash that he stumbles into his bathroom to be sick.
He can't care about the noise for a few minutes, until he's done. Then with the nightmare still flashing through his head and his body physically miserable, it occurs to him to worry that he might have just made a lot of noise. Is anybody even home tonight?]
Fuck. [Muttered to himself, under his breath. He feels fucking horrible.]
cw: emeto reference
[He doesn't bother with knocking then, opening the bedroom door and letting himself in. Looking in the dark and what light filters in from the living room behind him, Vergil can see the mess Nero's made of his bed, the sheets half-pulled from the bed in a trail that would give away Nero's location if the sound hadn't already. He wrinkles his nose at the lingering scent of sweat now intermingling sick coming from the bathroom. Leaving the bedding there for the moment, Vergil only goes as far as the doorway to Nero's bathroom, positioning himself as he leans on the doorframe so that he cannot actually peer inside. As much as he wants to check on Nero a little more directly, he thinks it's better to give him a bit of privacy and avoid startling him as well. He waits until Nero is quiet before knocking lightly on the bathroom door to announce his presence, believing it unlikely with all that commotion that Nero even knew Vergil was in his room, much less this close to the bathroom.]
Nero... [He folds his arms loosely in front of himself, straining his hearing for any slight or subtle noise.] Are you alright?
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Either that or he's having chills on top of the rest of all this. Which is... probably accurate actually.]
Yeah. Fine. [He calls back in a completely unconvincing, weary voice. Flushing the toilet, he stands up and the sight of his own exceptionally pale, sweating face greets him in the mirror. Like, paler than usual. He looks like hell.
Reaching for a glass to sip some water, he remembers that he put it in with the dirty dishes this morning. God damn it. Unless he wants to drink out of his hands he'll have to go fetch another one, which means opening the door and facing Vergil. Realistically, though, he doubts there's any way he's going to get Vergil to leave under these circumstances, until he's satisfied that Nero is actually okay. Which he visibly isn't. And audibly wasn't, either, which he imagines why Vergil's out there to begin with.
With a sigh that he can't really explain, he opens the bathroom door and comes face to face with his father, looking pale and clammy and sickly.]
Threw up.
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[He glances back over towards Nero's bed before ruling that out entirely. His bedding will need to be washed.]
Go to my room, [he says nodding his head in the direction of Nero's bedroom door.] Move my trashcan in case you get sick again.
[Vergil doesn't tell Nero whether he should just sit or lay down, leaving that up to Nero for the moment and what will feel best for him.]
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At least he already threw up so there's no question that he's not about to do it again.]
I- I'm fine. [It comes out unintentionally snappy, which only piles on to the guilt. So he tries very hard to sound calm and convincingly sure of himself.] Go back to bed. I'm just getting some water.
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If you've the ability and intention right now to strip your bed and replace it with a fresh set of bedding as soon as you're done with that glass of water without any assistance, then by all means, [he says, gesturing with a hand for Nero to proceed. Vergil will wait right in Nero's room for him to return quickly with a fresh set of bedding and perfectly hydrated.] Otherwise, you may reconsider your response and just how stubborn you wish to be at this time of night by being "fine" in my room while I bring you what you need.
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Vergil's verbosity also wears him down, as he's stalking off to the kitchen before he's even done with his sentence.
Nero grabs a glass, fills it with water, and rinses out his mouth first and foremost. He's less inclined to actually drink any, even if he's parched, choosing instead to take a few small, wary sips. Then he stalks off to Vergil's room, sets the glass on the nightstand, and intends to sit there with his arms folded until he's fetched.
Two minutes later, shivering, he's stolen a blanket and wrapped it around himself, curled up horizontally on the bed. Like it's not enough to feel this shitty, cold, and achy, his heart is still thudding from the nightmare.]
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[When Vergil joins Nero, he doesn't come empty-handed, carrying with him a tray. He's brought a bowl of cool water with a cloth, a pitcher of more water for Nero to drink, and a glass of juice along with his tea and book that he abandoned earlier. This late and so soon after vomiting, Vergil didn't imagine Nero would be eager to try and get any food back in his stomach, but if he can at least try to be a little more hydrated and bring the fever down, he will hopefully get some more sleep.]
[He doesn't say anything further about how terrible and outright miserable Nero looks. There is no I told you so or other such remark at what a poor lie it was for Nero to claim all he needed was a glass of water. There isn't any further chastisement for being so stubborn. Vergil simply picks up his trash can, bringing it with him as he walks around to the opposite of the bed. He leaves it near the floor where Nero would not need to move particularly far to reach it. Setting his tea and book aside on that nightstand, Vergil sits near to Nero's head and places the tray on his opposite side before moving Nero to rest his head in his lap. Quietly, he says,]
Come here, dear child...
[He runs his fingers through Nero's hair gently with one hand as he dips the cloth into the bowl of water with his other hand. Wringing out most of the excess water first, Vergil presses it gently to Nero's forehead first, letting it rest there a moment before moving it along to his cheek and to the back of his neck. He holds it there until the cloth feels warm beneath his hand, taking it away again to dip it back into the cool water once more to repeat the process.]
I've set your bedding to wash, but you're sleeping in here tonight. [Vergil doesn't bark this as a command to Nero, but he's firm about it all the same. With as much as Nero is shivering and how tightly he's curled up, Vergil doesn't trust Nero to make it back to his bedroom on his own with or without his bed properly made for him.] We can see about getting you back in your own bed tomorrow after it's been made.
[Whether that's in the morning because Nero still feels unwell, or at bedtime because he's made a full recovery.]
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Nero's zoned out so much he's startled by Vergil's return, lifting his head to stare at him blearily. Somehow he wasn't expecting the whole kit 'n' caboodle on the tray. Then as Vergil sinks onto the mattress, he says what is easily the most affectionate endearment he's called Nero since the moment they met: he adds a "dear" onto the usual dry, literal "child." Dear child.
The juxtaposition between that and the awful, hissing, scornful voice in his dream is almost unfathomable. He flops easily in Vergil's lap and curls up, as though trying to fit all of him under the blanket and as close to his father as he physically can. So, this is what it's like when your father takes care of you when you're sick...
You're safe here. He cares about you. He won't hurt you. You're safe.
When Vergil goes to refreh the washcloth, he can no longer hold back a loud sniffle. Maybe Vergil will write it off as part of his illness. The little dribble of tears and the red eyes, less easy to write off.]
Shit. [A very profound utterance. But he has no idea what the hell else to say that won't just make it worse.]
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When you feel you can sit up again, I want you to drink some more. I've brought juice if you think you can keep it down. [Vergil adds that in case that did not register for Nero there's more than water at his disposal.] Otherwise, your water is still on the nightstand. Just a few sips, and then you may lay back down.
[He pauses before saying,] My Relic is also in the drawer. If you would like to watch something, you may use it.
[Vergil doesn't know how long exactly it will take for Nero to fall asleep again, but he doesn't imagine it will be immediately. His illness notwithstanding, whatever he was dreaming about was far from pleasant and probably still lingering somewhere in the back of his mind so soon after waking. If Vergil had to hazard a guess based on his own personal experience with nightmares, Nero wasn't likely going to want to chance another nightmare if he fell asleep with it on his mind still. So, considering Nero isn't exactly the biggest reader, watching or listening to something on the Relic may be enough to distract him if not to sleep, then at least to relax and rest.]
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He doesn't want to sit up. If he's going to be this miserable he'll just lie here all night, thanks, and at some point maybe it will go away. But that leads to the dilemma.]
I don't want to lay back down. [He swallows, debating if he should admit why. Maybe it will help expel it if he admits it?] I had an awful nightmare.
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Do you wish to talk about it?
[The phrasing of the question is purposeful. Vergil doesn't ask what the dream was about directly. He wouldn't be particularly amenable to discussing his nightmares even with Dante, who could certainly make educated guesses at their content, and he's never pushed Dante to discuss his. But Vergil also knows better than to assume Nero will be the same as either of them. He talks...more openly. And plainly. It's not the poetic circles Vergil meanders through, nor the deflecting humor Dante wields where some meaning lies beneath, but it's up to the listener to detect and understand.]
[It's possible for Nero that talking about it will be enough to put it out of his mind.]
[So, he leaves it entirely up to Nero if he wishes to say something, or simply let the matter be.]
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[He does, actually, because putting it to words might be enough to banish the fucking thing from doing laps in his head. But how the hell is he supposed to tell Vergil what has him so upset when the answer is him? The dark, cruel, wicked side of him that Nero met before he ever knew his name or their relationship? The one who caused very real harm, least of all to Nero personally?
It'd be honest, but it also feels like he'd be confronting him all over again, and that's the last thing he wants to do when he feels this miserable-- to make Vergil feel miserable too.]
It's dumb. It's just a stupid dream.
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[Regardless of whether what Nero dreamed is something he fears will happen or already has happened, the fact remains that it was something his feverish mind concocted and not his current reality.]
The only power it holds over you now is what you concede to it.
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[That comes out a bit more flat than he would have liked it to. But, well... it's true. And he gets the feeling Vergil wouldn't think it was quite so stupid if he heard the details.]
It was all... stuff that happened. But it can't change now. Just decided to remind me about it for some damn reason. [Fever. Upset stomach. Ongoing insecurities about Vergil and the ripples of their relationship thus far.
Credo's death. Again. That's a nightmare he's had a hundred times in the past five years.]
Stupid how a dream can make you feel this shit. Or. Other way around, whatever.
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[Vergil faintly hums his agreement to that sentiment.]
The past possesses an unpleasant ability to find its way into the present. Most often when it is liable to be the most distressing or otherwise inconvenient.
[He remains even in speaking. There's no stuttering to the circles on Nero's back, nor a hesitation in refreshing the cloth once more. Nothing reveals Vergil's internal world at that precise moment. But there is a guilt all the same that gnaws at Vergil in his chest, knowing it was a nightmare of the past. He knows it's entirely possible that the dream tonight had little or absolutely nothing to do with him, but that's irrelevant. The chance is not zero, and even if it was not tonight, who is to say it would not be some other night? And what is Vergil to do then? How is he meant to soothe his own child when he is the very source of his nightmares?]
And as you've said, it is not anything that can be changed. Even when it exists in the present, the past remains as it was. It's... [A maddening feeling of such helplessness for Vergil, quite frankly, and one of those emotions he previously did not need to contend with before allowing more of his own humanity to exist. But, to borrow Nero's vernacular rather than even beginning to explain something like that, which is largely irrelevant here,] Stupid.
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[Vergil's longwindedness does have its advantages sometimes. Nero's relieved to find his voice... soothing somehow, at the moment. Maybe it's hearing it from this position, curled up with his head resting on his lap. Or maybe it's hearing it as it is now, in reality, free of the deep mutation that haunted it when he was Urizen-- the voice Nero can still hear gnawing at the back of his consciousness.
He focuses on the sound of Vergil's voice and his continuing gentle ministrations. Nero shifts a little, laying a little more relaxed, and one of his hands comes up to rest atop Vergil's knee. A solid little grip that he hopes feels affectionate.
But Urizen wasn't the only distressing image in his nightmare.]
It was Credo again. I dream about him... a lot.
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[Credo...]
[He's someone as part of Nero's life that stands out to Vergil compared to others. Not so much for what Nero has shared as it is how he's shared it with Vergil so far. In the beginning, when Nero shared bits of his life with Vergil and the people who had a hand one way or another in making him who he is, it was short bursts. If Vergil had to guess, it was a lingering wariness that likely drove Nero to share only a little at a time in starts and stops, gauging Vergil's interest in the topics and people of his life rather than simply going all in on the topic. But even as the stories have lengthened and the details have grown greater in number for others, Credo still seems to come out in those same short bursts. Vergil hesitates to put a feeling or particular reason behind it without Nero naming it himself, but he knows it's important, that Credo is important.]
I take it this time was particularly bad?
[Vergil dries his hand off, pressing it into his own shirt for a moment before running his fingers through Nero's hair again. His fingers on that hand are noticeably cooler against Nero's scalp after having held the cloth this entire time. He rests his other forearm on Nero, no longer rubbing at his back now that so much of his earlier tension appears to have left him.]
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He subtly shifts again, pressing up against the cool cloth, then back against Vergil's smoothing touch.
It occurs to him vaguely that he's not really talked about Credo to Vergil. Mostly because he can't. He exists in Nero's heart and memory like a wound that never really healed, that still stings and even bleeds all these years later.]
He was Kyrie's older brother. Captain of the Holy Knights in Fortuna. He taught me... everything. He was my mentor when I was with them.
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[It was something Nero spoke about with hindsight clarity. Not that Nero was likely to have been completely unaware of the trouble he caused at the time, but it was most likely harder not to feel it to be a reflection of the Order being inflexible rather than anything he held responsibility for. While that's still not untrueβthe Order had their preferred ways of doing things and certainly refused to deviateβNero can likely now see where it may have been to his (and Credo's) benefit to keep his head down a little more and only cause trouble when it really mattered.]
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[He smiles a little in spite of himself. Looking back now, he doesn't envy Credo being responsible for him in his teenage years. On top of the explosive temper he could be sullen, bratty, arrogant, and a dozen other rancid moods depending on the day. Credo handled them all with stern grace and discipline, and never once backhanded Nero or throttled him no matter how much he probably had it coming. Even bent his own authority to make a space for Nero that suited him, because he knew he was worthy of the trouble.
He hopes that speaking his honest feelings about Credo won't make Vergil feel guilty or inadequate. But back then he had no father, no Dante, nobody else who even came close. Credo was the only one who didn't treat him like a nuisance, or a weapon to be used against the Order's enemies. At least, not exclusively. After all, Credo was the only one of his superiors who showed concern for his "permanently" wounded arm.]
He was like an older brother to me. The only man in the Order worth looking up to. Worth wanting to be like, and wanting to earn his respect.
[Which made what followed all the more painful.]
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What happened to him?
[Vergil asks the question as gently as he can. The consistent past tense that's been there from the moment Nero first mentioned Credo to now has not escaped Vergil's attention, and knowing what the Order tried to do... Well, it's not difficult to imagine the man's fate was likely abrupt and unpleasant. But Nero's said nothing of it to give it a more defined shape than that.]
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He counts on that being enough for right now.]
When they found out I was part demon... he turned on me. Tried to capture me on Sanctus' orders.
[He pauses to collect himself for the rest.]
Then he tried to save me and Kyrie. Sanctus murdered him. And I couldn't do a damn thing.
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[Vergil bites back such criticisms, but he cannot help but wonder and ask,]
Have you forgiven him?
[Vergil suspects he knows the answer already, but he does not understand it.]
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I don't know.
[He hesitates, not because it's difficult to put these thoughts to words-- not when they've been on repeat in his head, over and over, for so many years. It's because it hurts to acknowledge them out loud, as though speaking makes them true.]
I never got the chance to ask him. If he thought he was doing the right thing. If he thought I was dangerous, or wrong, or if I just meant less to him than the Order. If he was sorry, or if he regretted anything, or if he knew what he meant to me... or if I ever really made him proud.
[His eyes close a little tighter.] He just died. Right in front of me. I wasn't strong enough to save him. And now I have to live with it all. All those questions he can never answer for me. All these complicated feelings and memories. Never really knowing what he thought.
It's like... a ghost. I don't know if it'll ever stop haunting me. Even if I can forgive him someday.
cw: reference to parent death
[On the one hand, what Nero says does nothing to really alleviate Vergil's skepticism. Not to say that Vergil would have backed down entirely from the notion simply because Nero emphasized the man's positive traits, or even if he provided some evidence to Vergil that would dismiss the thought process of a less than honorable mentor whose affection had its limits in the end. But too much of Nero's own doubts mirror Vergil's in a way that can't be ignored. For Nero to so openly and plainly state that he bears his own doubts about what Credo truly thought and felt when Vergil knows him to offer so much more benefit of the doubt to the people he cares about... It's telling. That's the very least Vergil can acknowledge.]
[But on the other hand, Vergil also knows what it is like to struggle with such forgiveness. When he held so tightly to the belief that his mother had been too weak to save him, that she abandoned him in favor of his brother and died with him instead, he still had questions. Even with as angry as he was, as certain he remained about his decision to turn from his humanity as it served no purpose beyond acting as an inherent weakness, as much as he would have denied it had he ever been asked, Vergil still wanted to know why. Why did she not come when he cried for her? He was not keen to forgive her as Nero seems wanting to forgive Credo, and did not want the answers as a means of absolving her, but... He wanted that closure. As much as any child would to someone they believed was meant to protect them, but failed in a catastrophic manner. In a way that felt like a deep betrayal from which there is no healing.]
[He draws another breath, looking away from Nero even as Nero's eyes remain closed.]
I don't know what will bring you peace. [Vergil had the benefit of Dante to know more of the truth, to change his understanding and forgive Eva for not reaching him that day even as his hatred of his mother now settles as a regret, as something he can never seek forgiveness for himself. Nero does not have that luxury. There is no one that would have known enough to know Credo's mind in those final moments to bring him such clarity.] But I hope you are able to find it. Regardless of whether or not he deserves forgiveness, you do not deserve to carry his mistakes forever.
cw: reference to parent death
[He hopes so too, even though he doubts it. He certainly thinks he'll carry guilt about Credo forever. After all, if he was just a little faster, stronger, smarter, more experienced, he wouldn't have been captured by Sanctus. Credo wouldn't have needed to save him. Maybe he wouldn't have doubted him in the first place, never chosen to turn on Nero for whatever reason he saw fit to.
But no matter what happened that awful day, no matter how sick and betrayed he feels about it, he doesn't want to be angry at Credo. Can't think of him easily in those harsh terms. Not when he still remembers him as a younger man, a teenager himself, a knight recruit. Too old to need to humor or play with the little sister and her companion who pestered him, but always willing to-- even with a performative huff or roll of his eyes.]
Their parents... [He's not sure what's making him want to go into this too. That fond memory of Credo, perhaps.] Credo and Kyrie's mom and dad. They used to volunteer at the orphanage. They liked me. Thought I was funny. I think they might have adopted me, eventually, if they had the chance.
When they died, Credo took over raising Kyrie. And he kept an eye on me, too. Still treated me like one of the family. They were the only thing like a family I ever had. All of them.
[He tightens his jaw for a moment, then swallows.]
I let myself trust people. Then I get kicked in the face for it. Kind of a pattern my whole life. But it doesn't mean I want to stop trying. I just... keep wanting to be close to people, and hoping it'll work out eventually. Or hurt less the next time, at least.
[His fingers tighten on Vergil's leg, and he shifts to curl in a little closer with a shiver.]
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I'm sorry, [he murmurs, removing the cloth from Nero's forehead.] My reasons for not being there had nothing to do with you.
[That's something Vergil knows Nero already safely assumed once he knew for sure that Vergil didn't know he existed until he was told that Nero was his son. Vergil gently presses the other, cooler side of the cloth to Nero's forehead.]
They do not matter, however. The simple fact remains that I should have been there. [Rather than returning to Nero's hair, Vergil's hand comes to rest over Nero's hand on his knee.] You should have known how precious and loved you are from the moment you were born.
[With no conditions placed upon any of it, and nothing more important that could possibly cause such a deep betrayal to happen again.]
[To the extent that he can in this position, Vergil's other arm holds Nero.]
But I have no power to change the past any more than you do. All I can do is ask that you trust me because there is no one more precious to me, and there are no promises more important than those I've made to you, my dear child.
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Nero never mentioned Vergil's role in his nightmare, but somehow they've stumbled their way around to reassurance all the same.
He balls his fist under Vergil's hand, and recognizes the awkward attempt at an embrace. It's a moment before he can say anything.]
I know shit happens. Especially with us. But... I can't tell you how much it means to me when you say that.
[His eyes open slightly, tiredly looking up at Vergil from beneath the washcloth.]
Maybe it's stupid, so soon, but... I do trust you. Just remember that, okay?
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[He nods a little.]
I'll remember, [he says, giving Nero's hand a light squeeze. Vergil allows it to remain an unspoken promise, but he does not want to fail Nero, to give him reason to ever regret placing that trust in him. Whatever it takes, Vergil wants to prove himself worthy of it even if Nero would likely say (aloud at least) that Vergil doesn't need to prove anything.] Although I will still risk that foul mouth of yours in telling you that I'd really like it if you'd consider being a little less stubborn, and try to drink something before getting some rest.
[He's careful not to ask Nero to sleep. Even if he's talked about the nightmare, vented some of the feelings and thoughts that manifested it into existence, Vergil isn't stupid. He knows Nero is liable to still be reluctant to actually sleep. But making an effort to relax to ride whatever this is out would be Vergil's preference for Nero.]
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I'm not stubborn. I feel like I got hit by a fucking truck.
[But he is awfully thirsty. So after a moment he makes the effort to slide an elbow behind him, sitting up enough to try and discern where his water is.]
What were you reading?
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The book you gave me, [he says as he passes the glass to Nero and sits upright once more.] I've read it a few times already, but... I suppose you could say sometimes one prefers the company of an old friend.
[It's the best way Vergil knows how to explain it. While he enjoys revisiting other books and poetry from other parts of his life, and sometimes is even so bold as to read a book published in the last century, there is a comfort in reading his favorites that cannot be replicated with any others. These past few weeks, he's felt he's needed such a comfort although he gives no such indications to Nero that's the case. As far as Vergil is concerned, this is a bit of small talk now before Nero makes an earnest effort to rest.]
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He perks up a little when Vergil mentions the book. Glances, as though to confirm it's the one he bought. Then he looks quietly proud of himself.]
Is it good? The guy at the bookstore said he thought it'd be nice.
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It is, [Vergil confirms with a nod.] It rounds out my collection of Blake, and is a good start to the others.
[Dante had taken issue with Vergil's refusal to really acquire much by way of things for himself. He had been here for nine months on his own, and hadn't taken the liberty to acquire his own books, contenting himself with borrowing copies from the library for as much as he needed or wanted. Frankly, Vergil still finds it a bit silly to concern himself with gathering books when he will not likely be able to take them with him when he leaves this place someday. Folkmore is, after all, just stop along the way back to the human world and by far not Vergil's final destination. But he won't deny that it's been...nice. To have copies that are his own again. Even if he finds himself in disagreement with Dante's logic overall, he can see some semblance of a point to it now that he's had a few more tangible things to call his own after being so long without beyond the clothes on his back and the Yamato.]
I'm surprised you didn't take the chance to read some of it before gifting it to me. You were getting quite good at making the books seem untouched at the apartment.
[Nero's been a little busted as far as reading Vergil's books is concerned for a while now, but it's only now that Vergil's chosen to acknowledge it openly.]
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He's taking a sip of water when Vergil slyly suggests he could have read it beforehand, and mentions his prior, secretive snooping around the books at the apartment. Now that they live in Vergil's room he's not touched them much. But it's not really that he was sneaking them...
He swallows gingerly.] I tried to. Same as I tried all your other poetry books. [He purses his lips a bit, then shrugs a little sheepishly.] Afraid they all make the same amount of sense to me. Which is, not much. But I've never been a real great reader when it comes to the fancy stuff.
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Out of curiosity, did you ever read them aloud or were you only reading them in your head?
[He idly smooths down a tuft of Nero's hair.]
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["Words pretty I guess" is most of what Nero has ever gotten out of reading poetry. Except he managed to find that one Blake poem while he was flipping through, it was short enough to read over it enough times to realize it would be a really nice, heartfelt spot to leave his envelope full of baby pictures.]
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[There's a slight furrow in Vergil's brow as he tries to think of how to illustrate his point perhaps a little more clearly.]
It would be akin to reading the lyrics of a song you like, but never once listening to the song itself. You would lose the rhythm of the words and vocal quality and technique of the singer as well as the instrumentation and musical composition meant to heighten the emotion and intent behind the lyrics. The words could still bear meaning just reading them plainly written, but you wouldn't experience it to the fullness that it was meant to be experienced.
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Okay, Nerd.
[He's smirking though, with a playful nudge back of his elbow lest Vergil think he's actually making fun of him to be mean.]
That makes sense though. I'm not inclined to read aloud when I don't know what half the words are, but that does make sense.
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Something to consider then, if you should choose to try to read them again.
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Nero isn't trying to be dismissive though. He simply never thought about reading aloud, not least of all because he's not sure how to pronounce some of those words. The idea of being overheard fumbling through a poem uneases him more than being caught squinting and struggling ever did.
After a moment, and with another sip of water to bolster his courage, he makes a suggestion.]
Maybe you could read some to me, sometime.
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[But Nero is honest perhaps to a fault, and it is not truly within his character to say anything he does not mean.]
[Vergil nods a little.]
If you'd like.
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But that's chased off once he agrees, and Nero nods back, unintentionally echoing his movement.]
I have trouble reading 'em on the page. So maybe hearing them, they'll make more sense.
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[Thus neither as long nor complicated as Paradise Lost in their presentation and far more straightforward.]
They are where I began when I first took an interest.
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He turns his head and blinks up at Vergil as though gauging him for something. Then he takes another sip of water before actually going for it.]
Read one to me.
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Any particular requests?
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He does cooperate in moving as much as necessary to let Vergil fetch his book. Gives him a chance to lie back with his head on Vergil's lap again, holding his water glass atop his stomach and watching what liquid remains jostle as he breathes.]
Something you like a lot. Preach it to me.
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[Vergil knows the poem well enough that he truly does not need to look at the page the entire time to recite it, but he keeps his eyes there rather than looking to Nero. It's only when the poem is at its end that he looks back down to Nero in his lap after a brief moment to let the last of it settle.]
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He's quiet for a moment after Vergil finishes, eyes closed. Then he opens them to find his father gazing down at him, almost expectantly.]
You have a good voice for that. [First thing that comes to mind for him to say, for some reason. He smiles.] I liked it.
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I take it that means it made more sense to you than reading it for yourself?
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[Nero mildly bristles a little, for a moment, and hurries to clarify.] Not that I can't read, or whatever, but... it's easier for me to listen.
There was a big lawn like that at the orphanage, so... I can picture it really clearly.
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I'm glad to hear it, [he says, closing the book and setting it down on the bed beside him.]
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He watches the book get put away and squirms a little.] Is that all I get? Just the one?
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...Would you like me to keep reading?
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Yeah. You were reading anyway... and maybe it'll help me not have nightmares.
I mean... if you don't mind.
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Alright, [he says, a little quieter than he meant to be. Vergil picks the book back up, but before he opens it, he nods to the glass Nero is still balancing on himself in his hands.] Are you through with that?
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Once the glass is empty he hands it over and fails at not looking terribly pleased with this scenario as he lies back down, settling in and smiling up at Vergil.]
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The water stays down, even if he still feels a little bit queasy and feverish. It's hard not to feel the ickiness lessen though, comfortable and warm, feeling the affection of his father. Here he is, a grown-ass man getting read a bedtime story by his dad. The thought occurs to him that this scenario is a first for both of them... and there's a little pang of regret that he never got the chance for this when he was a kid.
Oh well. Better late than never?
He mumbles some feedback for a few of the poems, nothing terribly profound, but appreciation for some imagery or another, or at least the way Vergil read it. It doesn't last too long though. About ten minutes in, Nero stops responding because he's fallen asleep.]
text; un: dante
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[But as he grumbles to himself and pockets his Relic, Vergil ends up giving it a little more thought. It occurs to him that perhaps this is Dante's silly little way of making sure Vergil is still actually bringing his Relic with him and still paying attention to it when he's out and about. He does have a tendency to make little to no acknowledgement of messages he might receive.]
[...So, against his better judgment, Vergil stands outside the front door and checks his Relic for the foolish little set of instructions once more. Rapping on the door with a knuckle three times, he pockets the Relic and begins a silent count to himself. Once he reaches twenty, he opens the door and steps inside.]
Dante? [he calls out as he closes the door behind him.] Why exactly am I knocking on my own front door?
[Oh, it had better be for an important reason like the one he speculated and pondered upon, and not just for his own amusement to see what he could make Vergil do.]
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Well Iβll be damned.
( Some days he really is.
But! Knowing he has about twenty seconds before his brother wanders his way in and, inevitably, asks what kind of tomfoolery heβs up to with sending him a message like that, he makes haste in his finishing up what heβs been doing in the kitchen whichβ¦ looks like a mess, really no other way of putting it. Heβs sure Vergil is liable to come close to blowing a baby gasket at the sight, but. Heβll clean it up. After.
When Vergil finds him, thereβs dirty pots stacked one on the other littered about the kitchen countertops along with various open bags of ingredients heβd needed to make the surprise heβd been cooking up for his brother. Oven mitts on, he turns to face his brother when he hears him, beaming and covered in red. Tomato sauce, for once instead of blood. Glass dish of lasagna held between his hands. Holding it up proudly then, he smiles. )
Surprise! I cooked for you!
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So you did, [Vergil says in a tone and pitch that absolutely belies just how much effort he's exerting to restrain himself right now. Vergil looks at the lasagna in Dante's hands as he calmly reviews why fratricide is a poor choice and it would likely be a deep, disappointing blow to Nero. Because the lasagna in his brother's hands is a nice gesture. It is a very kind, considerate gesture. Dante doesn't really cook all that often, but he went through the trouble of cooking something for Vergil. For no immediate or obvious reason. And he's clearly proud of the resultβas he probably should be for how little Dante tends to cookβand smiling at Vergil with all of his good intentions.] It...smells nice.
[Which isn't a false compliment even if it's a little on the weaker end while Vergil emotionally grapples with the state of the kitchen. He draws a steadying breath.]
What's the occasion?
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What? I need an occasion to cook?
( A chuckle then, he shakes his head as he brings the hot dish over to set on the table over a tea towel he laid down. Wouldn't want to get the table too hot after all! )
C'mon! Try some! I've been workin' my butt off in here.
( The lasagna itself looks... fine... save for the slightly burned edges, but. Definitely edible. Rich tomato sauce dripping between thick noodles stuffed with meat and a couple other vegetables β spice to taste! He proudly shows off the dish with his hands before he makes his way over to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of red wine that he sets down beside the lasagna on the table there. )
And something to drink, too. I thought it might go well with it.
( Hands on his waist, he stands there and waits rather expectantly for his brother to sit down and try some, utensils already laid out there on the table along with a glass. Just, you know. Ignore the tomato sauce smeared across his cheek and forehead. Don't ask. )
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Youβ [His brow furrows a little, but it's not an angry one. It's the face Vergil always makes when he is actively trying to process something before him, and needs a moment to assess and take everything in.] You really put a lot of thought into this...
[He doesn't mean to sound so surprised necessarily. Vergil knows his brother, and he knows while Dante may have the tendency to act as though he doesn't know much of anything, he is exceptionally clever. He would not be able to be quite so improvisational in a fight if that were not the case, especially when going against an opponent he's never faced before. Nor would he be perceptive enough to read Vergil's mood with as little as Vergil often provides by way of hints about it. It's also not really that surprising Dante put so much thought into something he put his mind to doing. Even if he did end up with tomato sauce smeared across most of his face, and Vergil can't be too certain there isn't also some pieces of cheese somehow stuck in his hair.]
[But still...]
[Vergil draws a breath and his lips part to say something, but he hesitates for a moment as he looks from the dish of lasagna back to his brother. Slowly, he sits down in front of the place setting meant for him.]
You really just...did this. For me? Without any other motive other than you...wanted to do it?
[Vergil isn't trying to accuse Dante of being otherwise inconsiderate, nor is the question meant to imply Dante never thinks of Vergil. There's a few books on Vergil's bookshelf in his bedroom, and a family portrait that highlight that not being the case in the slightest even if Vergil doubted his brother. But this is a lot of effort. Lasagna is more complicated than it seems on its surface, and Dante could have just as easily used his Lore to summon a premade one that all he had to do with put in the oven and claim he made it himself. He also went to the trouble of finding a wine to match, and setting the table in advance.]
[Which is why he raised the question of what exactly the occasion happens to be whether there's something special that Dante wants to mark, or he has something he needs to tell Vergil and otherwise make up for (beyond the disaster of the kitchen, of course). It is so much effort for no particular reason.]
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He waits for his brother to get himself comfortable β hands clasped behind his back then with blue eyes sparkling with both curiosity and a certain sort of anxiety over whether or not heβll like any of this. He knows the suspicion is there β that heβs probably wondering what led to his wanting to suddenly do this out of the blue, but. He just stands there and waits, smiling like when they were kids and he was waiting for Vergil to give into his wanting to play with him.
Chuckle on his lips, he leans across the table some, bracing himself on a hand as he plucks a knife up and starts to cut into the lasagna there. )
Canβt a guy just wanna do something for his brother and not want something out of it? Weβre not eight anymore.
( Debatable with how they get sometimes, but.
Cutting into the lasagna, tongue sticking out a little with his concentration, he shovels a good sized portion out of the glass dish and plops it down on the plate there in front of Vergil, splashing some of the tomato sauce as he does. A chuckle, he cringes. )
Whoops. Heh.
( With the pad of his thumb, he brushes away the splash of sauce that got him on the cheek and licks it off, making a pleased little noise as he does before he eagerly points to the dish. )
That right there is culinary art.
( Another chuckle, he straightens himself up and stands there, lips pressed together as he anxiously waits⦠for his brother to give it a try. )
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[Picking up his fork, Vergil cuts a bite from the slice that Dante has plated up for him. He purposely takes from a portion of the slice that's in the interior to avoid any...crispier pieces along the edge for now. Truthfully, he could do without the expectant staring. Well, perhaps not staring, but certainly watching. Vergil understands his brother is perhaps a bit anxious and wants the dish to be well-received, but there's a limit to how closely Vergil would prefer he's watched while he eats. Hopefully it's just for this first bite. Vergil blows on it gently before eating it to avoid scalding his mouth and give it an overall fair chance.]
[...To Vergil's further surprise, it's not just not bad, it's competently made and quite good. The layers of meat sauce and cheese harmonize well with the spices Dante's put into it, and the veggies while tender make it a heartier bite than it would be with meat alone. He hums quietly, pleased with what his brother has managed to do, but waits until he's swallowed the bite before offering such direct feedback.]
You did well, Dante. I like it.
[Coming from anyone else, that would probably seems a touch insincere or like they were not particularly enthused. But that's high praise coming from Vergil.]
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Hot damn!
( A punch to the air, he grins β hand up with a few nods. )
Thank you, thank you. Let it be known that I, Dante, son of Sparda, not only slay demons, but slay in the kitchen as well.
( Chuckling and beaming all proudly there, he reaches over for the bottle of wine then and cracks that baby open, pouring his dear brother a rather generous amount there in the glass he has set out for him because, you know, it pairs well and all. Or so he figures. )
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So, what you are saying is you have no excuse next time I ask for your help in the kitchen, [he says as Dante pours the wine. That...is more than Vergil would have poured for himself. But again, he says nothing of it. Even with as little as Vergil tends to drink, it's nothing the demonic metabolism won't be able to quickly burn off before it has any real effect.] Is your plan to just watch me eat, or did you intend on sampling some of your work for yourself?
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( He seems almost flabbergasted that Vergil would think otherwise. Wine bottle set down, he puts a hand on his waist then, chuckling softly. )
You can wrap it up in tin foil and take some with you when you go to do... ( this is where he waves a hand around ) ...you know. Whatever it is you do around here. Have a snack ready on hand! See? Look at that. I'm thinkin' ahead.
( To which he gives his temple a few taps with the tip of his finger. )
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[As much as Vergil's willing to let Dante be proud and excited of his work here, Vergil is not willing to dedicate three square meals a day to lasagna in order to get through a pan of lasagna before it becomes...off. Not that Vergil thinks a food-borne pathogen would really be enough to strike him down, but the taste sure as hell wouldn't be pleasant.]
Besides, if you're giving it to me, does that not mean I decide if I wish to share it or not?
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Well if you want to share with Nero, it's not like I'm gonna stop you.
( Hand falling away, he chuckles, giving Vergil's shoulder a couple pats then. )
I'll help ya get through it, don't worry. It'll make for some good late night munchies.
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At least sit down and stop hovering then if you're not going to eat any now. [It's weird, Dante.] Unless you'd rather start undoing the damage you've done to my kitchen.
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Whattaya mean? That's for you. I cooked, you clean.
( Smiling to his brother, he laughs after a moment, shaking his head and waving a hand. )
Just kidding. I'll take care of it later.
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Just make sure the dishes are clean, and you've wiped down the counters and stovetop.
[He leaves it implied that he'll handle the rest at that point. The lasagna might not be able to spare Dante from Vergil's wrath if the kitchen is still a disaster come morning, but it is at least enough to get him out of having to clean and organize it entirely to Vergil's standards at the very least. As Vergil cuts another bite of lasagna off from his piece, he changes the subject.]
Dare I ask how you've been keeping yourself busy these days aside from exploring the culinary arts?
[Not that he hasn't seen Dante around at all, but he did go from a brief stint of keeping to his room before spending more time outside of the house. Thankfully after his little slip-up not that long ago, he hasn't resumed cooping himself up, but it does mean it's been a while since the sons of Sparda were home at the same time.]
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Seeing what this place has to offer in terms of extracurricular activities.
( Twirling the fork around a couple times, he leans over the table and stabs it in the lasagna, helping himself to a piece which he brings to his mouth with the help of his other hand there beneath it so as not to accidentally drop any. )
You been to the swamps around here? They've got some pretty wild things to dance with there.
( Shoveling the serving in his mouth, he chews happily, dropping himself back down into his seat as he smiles to his brother. )
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I haven't ventured to Exile at all. [He's heard enough tell of it to not want to venture too deep into that region.] But I have heard the swamps are particularly dangerous.
[Vergil is not referring to the creatures that wander the area, however, so much as the mental effect the region appears to have on those who enter.]
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( Waggling his eyebrows, he chuckles then, clearly teasing but also not really because... he's encountered a couple of those in the times he's wandered his way to a particular bog. Nothing he couldn't handle and usually tends to make it out with little to no scratches. Aside from Cruel Summer, Exile really is one of the only other places he's found with a bit more of a challenge to take on when dancing with the creatures there.
Reaching over, he takes another small forkful of lasagna for himself β shovels that baby in as well before he's settling back in his seat once more. )
Keeps me busy, I guess. It's not like back home where I usually get someone comin' to me for somethin' or getting calls on the phone about a job needing to be done. I kind of miss it sometimes.
( He felt he had more of a purpose back home. Here? He's not so sure. )
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[Vergil is not certain if it's particularly surprising to hear Dante acknowledge he misses devil hunting. On the one hand, Dante's never done well with being still. And it's not as though Vergil has somehow allowed for his skills to atrophy since coming to Folkmore. He's sparred with Mizu countless times since nearly the beginning, and while that does not exactly translate to what he needs to defeat a demon, it's been wonderful for honing on his technique if nothing else. ABarring that, on occasion, he found himself in the fighting pits or putting down monsters that may manifest themselves as a result of trials. And now he has the opportunity to train Nero and put his skills to a greater test by sparring with Dante. Vergil does not have a reason to really seek out more than that. Not like Dante seeking out creatures in Exile.]
[On the other and arguably more important hand, Vergil would think the lack of violent responsibilities would come as a bit of a reprieve for Dante after... Well, it's been a few decades, hasn't it? At least since they were eighteen. Maybe longer. Vergil remains on-guard himself even a year later with so few threats, but he would be lying if he said he didn't find some measure of relief in truly knowing there was nothing hunting him for the first time in his life. There's a semblance of peace that comes with it, anyways. He would think Dante would feel the same way, and whatever thrill he might seek from his work would not bear much weight in light of that.]
[He looks at Dante with a furrowed brow, confused as he concludes that no, it actually is surprising to hear Dante say that. He would think this is what Dante has probably always wanted from the beginning: a mundane life without the shadow of their father's legacy looming over him. He gets to be himself.]
...You miss fighting for your life on a regular basis? [He wrinkles his nose again with a shake of his head. As he gets another bite of lasagna, he says,] I would think you would leap at the chance to indulge in other facets of your life that have been neglected because of your duties. After all, you have made it clear you feel strongly that I essentially do as much.
[Vergil's almost certain Dante is going to claim it's different given their circumstances. And maybe it is, but Vergil doesn't think it necessarily means he's wrong to draw a comparison and reach such a conclusion.]
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I said kind of. Itβs a figure of speech. Donβt take it so literal, Verge.
( Itβs just familiar and something heβs grown used to, if even unwillingly, over the years. Routine as they say. Even when heβd followed after his brother to the underworld, he knew there would be demons waiting to try their luck on the sons of Sparda. Foolish on their part, like always, but just another day that ended in y. Only difference was, he had his brother alongside him instead of the others.
It sucks they had to leave Nero behind as they did, but. He knew theyβd figure a way back to the human realm. As if anything or any place could ever really defeat him or his brother. At least Neroβs here now, justβ¦ away from Kyrie, his friends, and the orphans, which he knows is hard for him sometimes. To have the chance to be with your father finally but unable to be with your lady loveβ¦ gotta hurt some days. He knows it does β has seen the kid get gloomy about it. Talk about a double-edged sword.
Licking the sauce off the fork, he shrugs. )
Also, I did leap. After you. Whether or not this place is permanent, youβre here and thatβs all Iβve really wanted.
( To have his brother back. )
If you werenβt, I wouldnβt have got to make you this super amazing lasagna that is probably your favorite dish ever now.
( Teasing some, but. Heβs also quite proud that Vergil likes his dish. )
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[So, in truth, it's been more disquieting for Vergil to have his brother around than not. Which Vergil feels immense guilt over admitting even privately just to himself, but it's the truth. He knows more of how to be a father to Nero than he knows to be a brother to Dante. He has the example of Sparda before him and while not a perfectly clean slate, it's at least not a long of a history as what lies between brothers to give him a starting point with Nero. He has no such equivalent with Dante. Only how they were as children, which Vergil struggles to find applicable considering neither of them are the children they used to be.]
[And maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's why Vergil struggles so much in knowing how to be Dante's brother again. Dante isn't the snot-nosed little brat who could always make Vergil laugh despite his hot, angry tears and self-serious temperament. He isn't that kid who never seemed to worry about consequences, chasing after what was fun without a care in the world. For all the accusations Vergil gives Dante about being immature, he grew up. He changed. Vergil did, too. And yet, they still so often try to treat each other like those little boys that used to beat each other bloody, but would have done anything for his twin. As though no time at all had passed.]
[Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. They get stuck when it doesn't, and both seem to lack ideas of how to recover from it. Vergil can't and won't speak for Dante, but he knows he walks away from it disheartened when that happens. Even when it feels earned because of the choices Vergil made or Vergil can recognize Dante isn't the child he used to be and someone he still has so much work to do in getting to know again...]
[Dante tells Vergil time and time again not to worry and claims to have it all under control, and probably thinks he's doing Vergil a kindness in doing as much. In his mind, he likely thinks that he's somehow freeing Vergil up from worry and responsibilities that could somehow distract from what he needs or wants. But the reality is that Vergl feels brushed aside. And that's the rub. Dante says he needs Vergil, wants him around, but it feels like every time there's that possibility to be let in? Dante pushes back. Not usually in any sort of anger, and certainly not with hostility even when Vergil does push a button, but... He pushes back all the same, and Vergil finds himself at a loss with what to do. Sometimes he gets in his head, wondering if he did something wrong. Other times, he stews in a mild amount of frustration of wanting Dante to let him be his big brother again in ways that matter and count to them now and not the past.]
[A question rests at the tip of his tongue, but Vergil recognizes it as selfish, which means it has a greater capacity to be hurtful. So, he doesn't ask Dante if he has any regrets about following him into the Underworld, into Folkmore. Looking for such reassurance seems childish anyways, and what sort of foolish question is that in the first place? Of course Dante would have regrets. Maybe not enough to make him choose other than as he did, but there were things about home he must miss beyond his work.]
You would have enjoyed aspects of the false reality the Fox attempted to deceive me with then.
[Eva never died, brothers were never separated, and Nero grew up with his parents, his family. Sparda was still gone within the illusion, but maybe the Fox felt it would have been too obvious a lie to have given Vergil that much. It perhaps would have seemed too ideal to be tempted by it in that circumstance, but Eva's mere presence was ultimately enough for Vergil to mistrust it.]
I suspect because both of you are here in Folkmore that you and Nero were away in the illusion, but from all that I could observe before Mizu and I were able to leave, we had never been separated from one another. [He sets his fork down, the piece of meat ultimately untouched.] She seemed to believe such ideals could lead me astray if left to implication, but I have the both of you here now and that will not change even once we leave this place.
I have little need for a pretty lie in comparison.
[He glances at Dante then, drawing a breath and releasing it.]
Although I will not pretend I felt nothing upon seeing her again.
[He doesn't bother clarifying that it was their mother. He trusts Dante can put that together for himself.]
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Yeah. I miss her, too.
( He always had and always all. Just as he had with Vergil before he came back as he did. Honestly probably a good thing he didnβt end up on some train ride because heβd find it more insulting to puppet some fake version of his mother than something heβs wish was true. Then again, heβs had years and years to grieve and mourn her, though it doesnβt diminish how he still misses her. )
I still get nightmares of that. Even at this age. Kind of dumb, huh? Youβd think thatβd pass with time.
( Theyβre never as bad or as frequent as the first decade or so after it happened, but. Theyβre still enough to jolt him awake suddenly β sometimes to the point where heβs not sure where he is the first few seconds upon waking, but. He still gets them. Different pieces and versions of them, and he hates them every time.
Napkin all twisted up there in his fork, he pulls it away and smiles a little up to Vergil then. )
Sheβd be proud of you, you know. How far youβve come. I know you might balk at the thought of that because of the past and all, but. You overcame it all in the end and I think she always knew you would.
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Maybe, [Vergil says faintly, eyes dropping to his plate for a moment. It's less a matter of doubting Eva's capacity for forgiving his sins or to love him in spite of what he became, and more Vergil doesn't know that he would let her. He could only face the version of his mother in that alternate reality because she had no knowledge of who he is or what he has done. That wasn't her reality, and thus, it remained a non-issue in whether or not she could look at him with love and pride. So, for as fake as it had been, it was simpler, too. And that was probably why it was meant to tempt him. Vergil couldn't break his mother's heart like that. Not now. He wouldn't be able to bring himself to face her. But there in that false reality? It was of little risk to him. She loved him, and he did not need to think of any reason why she shouldn't. Leaning forward and hunching a little, Vergil brushes it aside and picks up his fork again for another bite of lasagna.] It doesn't really matter. She isn't here.
[And speculating is pointless. Maybe Dante is right. Maybe Vergil is. They will never know either way.]
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I mean... she is to me. I carry her with me. In my heart. I carried you, too.
( Until he had him back in his life again. He still does, just. It's different now. Since he's here. A different sort of carrying him within his heart. Then, perhaps a little more softly and almost shyly, the words to leave him are ones with a sadness to them. )
And dad.
( With the pad of his thumb, he presses at the corner of his eye β stops the tear there β and stands then, blowing out a dramatic sigh as he rolls his shoulders and swings his arms, fork dropped to the napkin. )
You really like it? ( He stares to him almost a little sheepishly. ) You know it's my first time making that, right?
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[He looks back down to his plate again, expression slightly pinched as he holds back the swell of emotion that Dante dances away from in his own way.]
[Oh, Vergil is angry and remains so when it comes to using their mother as she had been during the trial. But he misses her. He misses her, and he misses their father. And he hates that there is still yet this foolish, childish wish that somehow their family could have somehow come out of everything unscathed. Vergil draws a breath though because it is as he said to Trish. He has no desire to dwell in the past, to hopelessly wish for things that cannot be. Their parents are dead, and they are not the children they once were. The only thing there is now is what's directly in front of Vergil, and that's where he'd prefer to put his energy.]
[Vergil smiles faintly at Dante.]
I wouldn't be able to tell it was your first time making it. [Vergil taps a bit of the burnt edge on his piece as with the prongs of his fork and lightly teases,] Maybe a little less time in the oven and try to wear less of it next time, but you did well, little brother.
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Nod of his head, he plants his hands on his waist and smiles. Pleased. With the outcome of his cooking and the fact that Vergil seems to like it. Maybe it's not his most favorite thing ever, but. It's enough to put a smile on the youngest son of Sparda's face and that's really all he was going for anyways with all this.
With that, he slips himself away from the chair and goes about loading up the sink with the dirty dishes from his creation. )
I'm thinkin' quiche next time. Yanno. When I get in the mood to rock out in the kitchen. You ever had that?
( Who's to say when that will be, but. There might very well be an encore of this performance sometime in the future. Date to be determined, naturally. )
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He makes one lasagna and suddenly he has high ambitions of perfecting a pie crust... [Despite Vergil's teasing, he's not unconvinced Dante can't do it. If he managed to pull out a decent lasagna and pair with a nice wine, surely he can manage an adequately flaky pie crust for a quiche. He waves his free hand as he gets another bite of lasagna.] Some morning when you feel the urge to be in charge of breakfast for us, the kitchen is yours.
[There isn't any reason as far as Vergil can see that Nero should miss out.]
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( Glancing back over his shoulder, he chuckles. There's really no guarantee on when he'll get around to doing this, but. It's a thought he'll certainly tuck away to consider for some point in the future. For now, he's focused on putting all the dishes into the sink that he begins to fill with soapy hot water, deciding to let them soak in there and... tackle it all later.
Shaking the suds off his hands, he turns on his heel to face his brother and smiles again that he seems to be wining and dining there at the table. )
You mind if I leave those there?
( The dishes, he means. )
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They'll be fine.
[None of the dishes or utensils Dante's used would be damaged from a prolonged soak should Dante forget, and it falls upon Vergil to finish cleaning them.]
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You good with that? ( To which he points to the lasagna. ) Or you want me to wrap the rest up and put it in the fridge?
( Not that he's assuming Vergil's going to devour the whole damn thing right then and there, but. He's not about to put it away if he wants a little more. )
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( He rubs at his chin in thought. )
Well, good thing you told me. I would have just tossed her on in there.
( Chuckle, he shakes his head. Something he'll have to keep a mental note of for any future cooking endeavors. But, seeing how the dishes are going to soak and Vergil's been enjoying his meal, he feels like this was a success on his part. )
You good for dessert or no?
( Because he has one more trick up his sleeve. )
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Dessert?
[Dante means to tell Vergil that he not only baked a lasagna for the first time and chose an appropriate wine, he also went to the trouble of arrange dessert? Well, it's a good thing Dante already went through the trouble of assuring Vergil there was no ulterior motive behind any of this because otherwise, the elder son of Sparda would have questions.]
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( What kind of a guy is he? Chuckle on his lips and a shake of his head at the audacity, he pulls open the fridge and retrieves said dessert... which happens to be a chocolate mousse. No, no. Strawberry sundae would be a little overkill just like the pizza, so. He'd decided on a mousse which, thankfully, had been super easy to make.
Bowl placed down in front of his brother, he shows it off with dramatic hand gestures. )
Ta-dah! Chef Dante presents mousse au chocolat!
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Who are you and what have you done with my brother?
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( Waving his brother off, he plucks a spoon off the table and plops it in the bowl of mousse for him since, well. He's not going to eat it with his hands or tongue. )
Or would you have rather vanilla? Strawberry would be more my taste.
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[Dessert has never been much of a priority for Vergil since he was a child. If he's hungry after a meal, he just has more of the meal rather than seeking out dessert or some kind of snack.]
It is just odd to see you have put so much forethought into something.
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( To which he claps a hand down on his brotherβs shoulder, humming away with a smile on his face. )
I gotta wash up though if thatβs ok with you. Lay claim to the shower while I can.
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Go, [he says by way of giving Dante permission to leave and clean himself up. Before he does though, Vergil puts his hand briefly over the hand on his shoulder so that he might sincerely say,] And thank you, Dante.
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I love you, too, Verge.
( To which he then drops an extra loud kiss to the top of his big bro's head. Despite the corniness of it, the sentiment is genuinely sincere. )
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Alright. That's enough, Dante.
First week of April
Mizu serves herself yet again with hardly any prompting, a third serving, because she's truly famished and the food is too good to pass up. It's better than she needs and more, too. Of late, Mizu's eaten far more like she did on the road when short on coin, making each one stretch a long ways. Her days are busy and full. Sometimes she does not even make it to the library, all the more grateful for the way she's shifted to using the library for its purpose (borrowing books) to study them at home, whether that's her own or Vergil's. That some nights she falls asleep with the book in her lap is no matter. Kai is with her again, not only in Folkmore but in her own stable near Mizu's home, not in far off Willow (where the farmer's far more open to accepting Kai when Mizu wears a flower crown, an exception only being granted to the horse).
"It may mean more time spent in motion, going here and there," Mizu admits, "but a horse's needs cannot be overlooked. I'd gladly make the trek to Willow every day, as I did in the first days since Kai showed up on my doorstep."
Her lips curl up into a smile, and Mizu looks at Vergil. It was his doing, she's sure of it.
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But that is the only part he is pretending to be doing. When it comes to listening to her, Vergil's attention is focused on her. He's quiet and does not interrupt. Sometimes Mizu will talk herself in a small circle, repeating a piece of information until something new is attached to it. He doesn't mind, however. It's rare to see Mizu so passionate in this way, so lacking in self-consciousness that words spill out easily and she never seems to realize it. She doesn't seem to concern herself with how clearly she's communicating or not, and just seems to implicitly trust he's keeping up. If that's even a concern of hers. Because frankly, Vergil doesn't fault her if it's not and she is merely seeking out a release for her excitement. It's good to see her this way, and feels better knowing he had at least a small hand in making it happen in the first place. So, he speaks when she goes looking for his input or there's an otherwise appropriate lull, but he does not change the subject or unkindly point out that she's told him about the blankets and their fabrics three times this week alone. Frankly, Vergil is more than content to simply listen with a faint smile on his lips if that's all she really needs from him.
"I'm sure it is of little concern to her what the weather is like," Vergil says. A beast willing to go toe-to-toe with a half-devil in a battle of wills is not likely to wilt over the constant presence of snow, but Vergil keeps that part to himself. For as knowing as Mizu's smile is, Vergil does not acknowledge it at all, and maintains the ruse of ignorance as to how the mare came to be in Folkmore. Mizu could be forgiven for assuming it to be a bit of a playful joke between them or even a clumsy attempt at humility, but it is actually quite sincere. He thinks by saying nothing, providing no hint or clue will keep it a mystery, and ultimately negate the importance of the question, which is thoroughly aligned with his intent. After all, if he wanted recognition, he could have sought it several different ways even in just the presentation of the horse alone. All Vergil wants, however, is for Mizu to be happy. For Kai to belong to her and only her as it should have been with no danger of someone taking her away again. She deserves that. So, Kai is not a gift given to her. She is something, someone returned to her. Vergil merely facilitated it happening. That's all and not important.
So, instead of the real reason he knows Kai is not likely one to care about the year-round snow and cold, he says, "Not when you have her living in the lap of luxury and quite possibly turning her into the most spoiled creature in this realm."
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Kai is a hardy horse, one used to the mountains and the winters there. She was wild, once living on her own under all conditions. She's her own creature, and no doubt her opinion on the matter will become clear. If not this summer, so shortly after her arrival, perhaps the next. Even should Mizu leave, when Mizu leaves, Kai deserves a life of her own choosing, not one depending on the whims of a lord who sees her only as one of many. A lord who hasn't earned her respect yet dictates her life. Unnatural.
"It is no less than she deserves," Mizu says, clucking her tongue. "No less than she had before, when we were first together. It is simply a matter that my home was not built to care for horses, the way Mikio's was long before I came there. I shared in all the chores we had and cared for Kai myself then, but I did not fully appreciate all the work that made such labor light enough we could care for a whole herd of horses. Not that I have any need or interest in having a herd of horses here. I need some time remaining for researchβ
"And time with certain individuals." Vergil, most of all. As much as Kai has taken up her time, Mizu continues to make as much time for Vergil as she had before. It means less time making swords. Less time at the library. Less time on other matters, but not Vergil. Like Kai, he is precious and will too slip through her fingers when she must leave.
Mizu sips her tea, only a second soaking of the leaves, and enjoys it. It tastes far more of tea than the weakened stuff that had lasted a week before. Though honestly she'd drag the leaves out even longer if Vergil came over less frequently.
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"You seem to be enjoying the work regardless of the demand upon your time."
Not that Mizu was treating it as some great secret, but it is still something worth noting all the same.
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Vergil doesn't know much about horses. Mizu didn't either before her marriage. Yet he respects Kai for who she is and never complains when Mizu needs to finish doing something in the stables before they can spend time together. Nor does he complain about Mizu dragging him into riding horses for the sheer joy of it. So many moments her heart feels lighter since Kai arrived. Since Vergil brought Kai here. It is in the fox spirit's nature to allow it but not to provide it unprompted. He didn't give her a horse. He allowed her part of her life back that Mizu thought gone for good. It never occurred to her to summon Kai, the horse she lost. The horse she has back. It will not be possible in Japan. Mizu cannot simply demand her horse back from a lord. Here, however, it's good.
"It wasn't a bad life, while it was good. Taking care of horses," Mizu says. "I never delivered them to his lord, never dealt with anyone. I wouldn't want to. Mikio couldn't choose his customers the way Master Eiji does. The work is good. The business is not."
Horses are expensive, so Mizu never had one after Kai. She walked. On occasion she took a boat or rode a horse, but those were exceptions when they were necessary. Even in Folkmore, it takes a lot. Mizu socializes more because of it. On Kai's behalf. There are simply too few Star Children and spirits in need of swords for that to sustain her. Time with Vergil isn't transactional like that. She'd do it, even if it didn't give her a lick of Lore.
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"Perhaps that's part of why Kai took to you, but not to him," he says. "She knew you cared for her, not what she would do for you."
Much in the way that Mikio never really mistreated Mizu. Until the end, he kept to his word of keeping her safe from the outside world in exchange for her contributions to the household. It was only when she stepped out of line, bruised his fragile ego that he demonstrated cruelty towards Mizu and her surrogate mother. For as little as Vergil knows of horses, he can tell Kai is of good stock. She's visibly strong and maintains an elegant form even if only for Mizu. She would be akin to a jewel amongst mere coins likely compared to the rest of the herd. Perhaps that's why Mikio gifted her to Mizu, Vergil thinks. It was not just out of respect for the bond Mizu made with the mare, but he saw it as sacrificing something for her. To say the bond they were developing meant something to him. But then Mizu did not serve the correct purpose when she so thoroughly defeated him in swordplay, and she lost her value. Kai had not.
Vergil chooses not to dwell on his cruel decisions any further.
"But I suppose when you've chosen to make it your business and you reek of horse most days, I imagine you just have to be grateful for whoever is willing to tolerate it to do business. How fortunate it is for you that I am willing to tolerate it for your sake alone and without expectation you are going to sell something to me." He's teasing her lightly, again. He does not mind the change to her scent since Kai's arrival all that much beyond a mild lack of recognition at first. It is no more overbearing or particularly unpleasant to him than the scents left upon her by work in the forge. Its only crime for a time was being novel, but he now expects the scent of straw and Kai to linger upon her just as earth and heat and metal normally do, and it would seem odd without them. More seriously, he says, "I agree that the business would not likely suit you, but the work certainly does. Or at the very least, you are quite good at charming creatures that so often refuse and tolerate little when it comes to the company of others."
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Mizu lifts a shoulder, not releasing Vergil's hand where he's grasped it, to sniff at her armpit. It smells faintly of hay and horse, but she smells remarkably clean by her standards. Bathing in Folkmore comes easily. She can soak in her own home, indoors, without risk of discovery. It's luxurious, the way only lords would bathe in Japan. That means she bathes more frequently, for the pleasure of it after a long day of physical labor. Some new soap or other bathing item appeared at her bath without warning, but Mizu's avoided it because unlike Kai, it's not the sort of gift Vergil would simply leave around for her. In all likelihood, it does something when used. Mizu'd rather not experience one of the fox spirit's pranks or trials while naked.
The work suits her. It's an idea that gives Mizu pause. She trained to make swords. She trained herself for revenge and set herself on that path. She stepped aside, stumbled, for a short time but returned to it. The work, the work she learned to do helping Mikio, doesn't on first glance help her revenge, yet everything helps the pursuit of one's art. Swordfather taught her that. How does taking care of Kai help her on her course of revenge? On the simplest level, she has that answer when it comes to Vergil. Sparring with him makes her a better swordsman, no matter that her fathers will be unable to do what he can with a sword. It increases the odds she'll succeed, she'll live. Kai? Perhaps should she need to travel by horse, should her fathers not be in London proper but the countryside like Vergil's estate in that memory world on the train, her experience with Kai will help her. Yet she cares for Kai because she's Kai. Kai may very well make it take longer for Mizu to accomplish her revenge, to be ready to return home, because of her many needs and because going home means never seeing Kai again either. It is goodbye to both Vergil and Kai, no matter that Kai is from her world, her time and place. Mizu may be falling for the fox spirit's tricks, the way things always grow complicated and difficult once one plays with that danger. Mizu doesn't regret that, and that may be what happens to people in those stories.
"I lack charm, but I am one of those creatures myself," Mizu says, somewhat teasing herself, somewhat serious. "We recognize and respect each other. I reached out, but the decision was entirely hers. I would have respected a no."
It sounds not so different from how Mizu and Vergil became close. Though with Rin, perhaps, Mizu was more like Kai than the other way around. Rin's gone and hopefully building the life she wants back home. Her future is there, not in Folkmore. Folkmore isn't forever. It's only a place for now, for a short period. Not for life. "Though if the stink must be tolerated with great effort, we could move to the bath. I'm nearly done with dinner."
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"How merciful of you," he says with a quiet, amused huff. "Either way, if you're nearly done, I'll set to cleaning up while you finish."
Vergil rises to his feet, but does not yet release Mizu's hand.
"Try to taste and savor it, won't you? I didn't work hard making it for you to just inhale it," he says, his free hand turning her face towards him as he bends down to press a kiss to her lips all the same. "How you don't give yourself a stomachache constantly is beyond me."
And yet, despite the mild scolding for how quickly she eats, he still provides Mizu another kiss with a smile on his lips, his thumb gently stroking her opposite cheek. Giving her hand a light squeeze before letting go, he breaks the kiss and straightens back out to clear both his place setting and the remainder of the meal from the table. By his estimation, there's enough left for one or two more meals depending on how Mizu opts to make it stretch. Knowing her recent patterns, it will probably err on the side of two rather than one. Vergil hopes soon a bit of an equilibrium will be naturally achieved now that Kai is more or less settled, and it's that same hope that keeps him from essentially staging an intervention.
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Her chopsticks move to shovel the rest of her food in her mouth. Vergil's been barely eating at his plate for some time now. He's waited on her eating long enoughβ
Mizu blinks, her hand pausing as she processes the request. She barely kisses him back the first time, better reacting the second. She laughs a little. "It'd take far more to give me a stomach ache. Perhaps a sword to the gut."
It started when she was young, on the street. Food was there when it was there, and people would chase her off if they saw her. So it was scooped up with her hands, gone in seconds. Food was reliable with Master Eiji, a blessing she never took for granted, but it also wasn't good. It gave them energy to make swords. It didn't need to do anything else, like taste appetizing. Traveling, it was still best whenever in a town to eat her food quickly and be on her way. She attracted negative attention often enough she wouldn't always get to finish the meals she paid for if she took her time. It's hard to slow down, but Mizu takes smaller bites and chews. It tastes far better than anything she's made.
Still, it's only food, and Mizu doesn't need that long to eat it. That may say something, given it's her third serving, three times as much as she generally eats as a meal these days, but she's warm and full with it. She gives a pleasant sigh at the feeling and stands to clear her plate. She sets it on the counter and slides it across, leaning herself but giving Vergil all the room he may need in the kitchen. He doesn't have to clean up after her. She's fine cleaning in her own place, especially since he cooked. Yet she doesn't insist. She appreciates having one less chore to do.
"Your smell's changed a little since Dante and Nero showed up," Mizu comments. "Subtly, but it's there. You smell like family."
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"Pizza grease and motor oil? You should have said something sooner," he says dryly enough that to anyone else's ear, it would probably sound like he was taking the opportunity to insult his brother and son or otherwise be dismissive of what she said. But Mizu knows the importance of Vergil's family to him and she's learned the subtle tells by his tone to know it's not a genuine refutation.
Vergil knows that he's changed since Dante and Nero arrived. He's still quiet and reserved, preferring the company of his books to others. He also has not abandoned his pride or skill as a warrior, nor has his temper dissipated. But there's also something...a little softer within him these days, and Vergil finds himself being braver in ways that he never could be when he was younger. Frankly... Well, there's really no other way of putting it than he's more human than he's been in a very long time. It's terrifying at times, and he does not always handle it with the greatest amount of grace or the least amount of doubt and insecurity, but it's sincere and just because it's difficult doesn't mean he's any less dedicated to it.
But he also knows it's not just because of his kin alone that these changes have come about. They are a large, primary factor, but that does not make Mizu's contributions any less important. She knows of his mistakes and the blood and consequences that came because of his decisions. Mizu does not and cannot offer absolution for his wrongdoings, but neither does she hold them against him. Whatever she may think of the uglier, more broken parts of him, she accepts them. Oftentimes, she accepts them better than he does even as Vergil's found ways to make peace with parts of his past. So, it's not a case of one or the other. Mizu and his family both make him better. Or, at the very least, they both push him to strive for better.
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The smells themselves are neither good nor bad on their own. They don't bother Mizu or put her off. What she likes, what she appreciates, are what they mean for Vergil. He has his family in Folkmore, his whole reason for coming here. He can take his time here and simply enjoy a life with them. In time, he can find a way back to it in his world. After the time they're having together here, Mizu doubts anyone could keep Vergil from his son. They couldn't before either. Not someone willing to follow a fox spirit on the chance it will lead him there. He might not be looking into that right now, spending time with his family and with Mizu. It's why she's certain she'll leave first. Mizu cannot achieve her revenge in Folkmore. Even if one or more of her fathers showed up, killing them would do little good. They'd return like weeds, not removed at the root. So she will need to leave, while Vergil has what he wants here and now. And Mizuβ
Mizu wants more and more, the longer she stays. It's dangerous, that longing.
"We can wash up, but we'll both smell the same in a day or two," Mizu says. That hardly negates the joy of washing or the luxury of hot water filling the bath like a natural hot spring. She appreciates cold soaks too, even enjoys them more sometimes. The ocean is a place of calm within her. "Only with more relaxed muscles."
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So, he wouldn't have exactly thought anything unusual if Nero had simply kept her company or let Mizu be entirely until Vergil's return. Despite how rough Nero's language may be, he is still exceedingly polite when he wishes to be, and it seems to be within his practice to remain so unless someone provides him with reason to be otherwise. Especially seeing as how by then, Nero knew the truth of their relationship. That they are...dating. (It still seems a strange thing to say for Vergil, but that's more a by-product of avoiding a label for so long than any reflection of their relationship.) Nero seemed quite nonplussed by the information, but generally supportive nonetheless. So, the polite nature of their relationship continuing seemed more likely than more intentional time spent together. Thus, Vergil's surprise that Nero suggested they go out for pizza. However, despite curiosity about the outing, Vergil chose not to pry for details from Mizu or Nero. Neither said much about it beyond Nero did giving Vergil a bit of playful grief along the lines of "you snooze, you lose," and so Vergil simply trusted it went well. There's certainly been nothing amiss since between the two of them that would suggest otherwise even if there has been no repeat since to his knowledge. Regardless, Vergil has chosen that unless either one of them explicitly requests his intervention, he shall let it be between them.
"Perhaps," he says, setting aside the last of the dishes to dry before rinsing down any remaining suds in the sink. "But I think more importantly when the scents of the bath fade, it's my scent that's on you first."
Whether that's because Vergil is with her and close to her or she's helped herself to his clothing, he's confident that his scent is the first. Perhaps that's why Kai does not mind him nearly as much, he thinks faintly. She's come to associate his scent with Mizu enough that she contemplates kicking him rather than immediately deciding it as the only choice. It's as good a theory as any, but it's not really the point. Sink and hands clean, he steps over to where Mizu is leaning against the counter and places his hands on either side of her, resting his forehead against hers in a gentle nuzzle. Vergil likes the little marks he leaves upon her regardless of whether they are marks of his passion and desire or his scent alone. Mizu is his and allows for those to remain on her skin because she chooses to give herself to him. It remains a pleasing thrill to him even beyond their more intimate acts with one another because he's proven himself to be worthy of it, safe enough for that sort of vulnerability from one just as guarded as he also tends to be.
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Mizu rests her head against his and her hands on Vergil's waist. Her instinct is to draw these moments out, but the truth of the matter is that they will come. More will come. Mizu can trust they will come. So she doesn't slide her arms around behind him to hold Vergil close.
"We are due for a bath then," Mizu teases, "I can't smell you on me over Kai, and Kai doesn't appreciate me smelling like her the way you do." Oh she smells a little of Vergil, from spending time tonight, but she makes the unnecessary excuse, the teasing. She kisses him, without a push for more and no hurry to move along. She rubs his sides, comfortable and full and perhaps a bit stinky but unbothered by it.
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"Well then, if she lacks that much sense, it sounds as though she may be more foolish than the one who looks after her," he says with a teasing smile against her lips before kissing her again. Vergil moves one of his hands from the counter to along Mizu's forearm, tracing down along to her wrist and hand. "Her loss. My gain."
Intertwining their fingers together, Vergil presses a kiss to Mizu's hairline before stepping back. His other hand follows a similar path along Mizu's other arm, but does not end in holding her hand so much as gently disentangling them from one another. By the hand he's holding, Vergil leads her the few paces to her stairs, guiding her to walk ahead of him once they reach the base of them. He's long-since been allowed into the upstairs of Mizu's cabin without needing some form of explicit permission from her. There's nothing really remarkable up there as far as the bedroom or bathroom are concerned, and nothing about Mizu in those spaces would somehow shock or scandalize him either. Simply put, the upstairs to her cabin hardly feels even remotely forbidden to him as it had in the beginning of their time together. But despite there now being this implicit standing invitation to share in the space, Vergil respects the whole of it as hers still. Thus, every now and again, he does little things like this because he knows most are not privy to any of it let alone as much as Vergil tends to be.
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The stairs turn halfway up, another measure of privacy, and Mizu walks up without a hurry. Once in her room, she squeezes Vergil's hand before releasing it and takes the time to start the water. It is a large space to fill, hot and steaming, before returning to her room to remove her clothes. She wears the same outfit she always wears, when she wears her own clothes, and removing it piece by piece. After a moment's thought, Mizu sets them aside for the wash, rather than hanging them back in her closet. The greatest relief comes when she unbinds her chest, a small sigh. It's easier to breath, and Mizu stretches, enjoying the freedom of movement.
"We have a little time til it's ready," Mizu comments. Amazed as ever at baths that come without lugging water back and forth. It takes no more effort than turning the tap and a little waiting. She pulls her hair down, and it falls far down her back. "You know, unless I'm going out, I usually put your clothes on first after a bath."
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"You're still welcome to them," he says, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, right over one of his faded marks. It used to be just one set of clothes Vergil left behind, but he's left more with Mizu since learning of her little habit in his absence to allow her to indulge in it as much as she likes. Or, in this case, allow her to indulge without leaving him without anything to wear. Vergil runs a hand through her hair, pulling some strands forward as he does, idly noting just how long it's grown. His other hand rests at her hip, thumb lightly stroking at warm skin. Vergil wants for nothing right now, his contentment plain in his expression.
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Her head leans to one side as he kisses her. The skin's barely bruised any longer, and Mizu'd welcome him darkening it again if Vergil were so inclined. She traces a couple places on his skin, all perfectly clear, where she left the briefest of marks herself. Mizu has to pull back and observe them then and there if she wants to see them at all. They're gone so quickly. It is fine, part of reality. She has his clothes, if not her marks on his skin. "Then when you leave, you can wear the clothes that no longer smell like you. I've worn them out."
Mizu stays close and leans against him. "Or I can get your smell from you directly. As well."
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"I would think either would be satisfactory for the intended purpose," he says, continuing to idly play with the loose strands of her hair. Vergil understands why she wears her hair the way she does, but he cannot help wondering what she would look like with other styles applied to it. He's certain she would look just as handsome and beautiful, but it would be a curious sight to see after so long of the same way of wearing it day in and day out. It's something that will remain in his imagination, however. Assuming she were at least amenable to wearing something different in the privacy of her room, the sum total of hairstyles known between them that would differ is likely exactly zero.
But it is no matter. He's already spoiled each time her hair is released and left for him to pet and play with. Vergil doesn't know if she likes or particularly prefers the sensation of it, but she has yet to complain when he runs his fingers through it. At the very least, she's understanding that he enjoys the act as a means of affection to her, and indulgence in something few people can likely claim to have experienced for themselves.
"Of course," he continues, "I believe one affords a bit more enjoyment for you than the other. And you could not be faulted for indulgences with as hard as you've been working lately."
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Enjoyment, as Vergil puts it. Indulgences. Oh, Mizu indulges herself with Vergil all the time, all the time they do anything besides spar. That initial reason for meeting that extended to Vergil taking care of her afterward to ensure she didn't collapse until that stretched out. Now, they spend more time not sparring than sparring, despite her ability to heal her wounds to be ready to go the next day. "You enjoy it as much as I do, as much more than me merely wearing your clothes," Mizu tells Vergil, "While I'm here, I'll indulge as much as I like."
Not that Mizu's entirely sure what that amount would be, were there not the matter of Vergil spending time with Dante and Nero. Their time together at Amrita was forced upon them by limited resources, yet with some time apart during the day, Mizu didn't feel suffocated. She misses Vergil the nights they sleep apart, and it's one reason she spends the night sometimes at his place. All they do is read and cuddle and nothing that would keep his brother and son away, save for their imaginations. Mizu appreciates having her space, that this cabin is hers that she welcomes him into, yet how much more would she welcome him in? They've found a balance that works, and Mizu appreciates it for what it is. After all, she has plenty of work to do when he's not here and falls asleep without trouble.
"How long do you smell me on you when we part?" Mizu asks. It might last longer, with a better sense of smell, but she doesn't know him to have the same habits she's picked up. Not that she's needed to leave a spare set of clothes at his home. She could.
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Although in Vergil's case, Mizu is right. It's not the scents of work that tend to linger in place of her scent when it begins to fade, but the the scents of his family. Because it's rare these days that Vergil is able to read without someone coming to rest upon him, and that includes his brother and son when they want his attention. And while it's more of a friendly competition than it used to be between brothers and a matter of training for his son, he still occasionally spars with each of them around various places in Folkmore. Vergil also stays in the garage for a little while to listen to Nero excitedly explain his latest project to him, and concedes to Dante's whims for dinner on occasion.
But he still has traces of Mizu. Faint and fading, and likely imperceptible to her human senses, but still there nonetheless.
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Mizu smells like her life here: fresh steel, tea, old books, snow, a particular horse, and Vergil. The rest can come and go, depending on what happens, but those underlay the rest. Folkmore isn't a place that can last, but while she's here, so long as she's here, she's built a life. It still serves her revenge, her quest that she investigates in her time here. It simply does more? It's not the life of comfort and power that Heiji Shindo tried to bribe her with. It's not the life of a quiet life setting the rest aside that Mizu tried to build with Mikio and her mother. Yet it's a life, more of a life than she's had since she set out for her revenge. Perhaps because it isn't in Japan. Perhaps because people face far stranger than a single onryo regularly in their time in Folkmore. Perhaps because it's no one's home, and no one will stayβ
Mizu strokes Vergil's back and sets aside the fact she'll leave one day. It's not today. Today she can have these luxuries. A warm private bath. Companionship. "The water should be ready."
It takes effort to pull away from Vergil. She's not that dirty, but Mizu won't waste the water. She leads the way to the bathroom and turns off the tap. She steps into the hot water. Mizu lets out a small sigh and lowers into the water. She could get used to this. She's already gotten used to so much.
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Once Mizu is relatively settled, Vergil joins her in the water. Mizu's tub is large enough for the both of them to comfortably fit without touching one another. But by Vergil's measure, there's very little reason to take a bath together and not be touching in some capacity. But Vergil does not settle right next to her, and when Vergil reaches for her, he's not seeking to move her from where she's already settled. He disturbs her less than that, and draws her legs into his lap. Without asking or any sort of preface, he begins to warm up one of her feet for a massage. The hot water will do plenty for relaxing and loosening her muscles back up. But with as much time as she spends on her feet with everything that she does, Vergil would be hard-pressed to believe that the hot water on its own would be enough.
Vergil only breaks his quiet once he moves on from warming her foot up to begin properly massaging it, and says, "Tell me if you want more or less of anything."
Not that Mizu has ever been particularly good at masking her reactions to physical sensations that Vergil couldn't somehow intuit his way to the right direction, but Vergil still gives her the explicit permission to guide the massage towards what feels best to her. If she wants him to linger or repeat part of it, or she wants more or less pressure, he's content to oblige her. It is, after all, meant to relax her further and bring about more relief than the water can do on its own.
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Less expected is the attention that follows. The concept isn't new to Mizu, but she's never received it before Vergil. A quiet reminder of how different he is from Mikio. The thought doesn't cause a flicker in her emotions or relaxation. It's natural to compare the two, and as ever, Vergil comes out the better man and the more attentive partner. She sighs a little, even as he warms up her feet. They've born her weight most of the day, it being a day of little reading, and she feels where it's taken a toll. Mizu hums slightly at Vergil's direction. She accepts it but neither plans to speak nor to hold her silence. She lets it proceed.
"Oh," Mizu groans at a particularly sore spot. There's pain, but behind that pain comes relief. The release of tension that means it will feel better once it's been dealt with. "Deeper."
Each time the pressure eases, Mizu sighs a little easier. It's incredible what pain she simply takes for granted until it's gone, relieved. You don't have to, Mizu almost says, except she knows he knows that. Vergil does it anyway. Happily. She lets him, and Mizu relaxes with it more than she ever would were she to massage her own foot on her own. Then, she'd remain alert to anyone approaching her cabin, who might interrupt while she's naked and exposed. She has to, always, on her own. Vergil's senses are stronger than her own, and he will not let someone get close. That's more relaxing than the bath: to let her guard down.
"Would you get any benefit," Mizu asks, "if I were to give you a massage?"
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"I think that would depend on whether or not you had any skill with it," he teases lightly. Despite his healing factor, Vergil is not actually any more immune to muscle tension than Mizu happens to be.
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However, Mizu is comfortable and comfortable enough not to step immediately toward a foolish challenge. Oh, she's not letting the idea go, but Mizu can be a little smarter about it. "I'll pay attention next time you massage my feet when we're not in the bath," she says, "Then I can copy what you do. As we've both seen, you have skill enough with it."
She's used to studying people's hands, their feet, their movements. Mizu wants some time to practice on her own feet before immediately trying it on Vergil's, but it shouldn't be hard. It cannot be harder than learning how to use a sword. "You'll just have to trust me."
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Vergil reaches for her again, but this time draws her in closer to him. He doesn't pull her into his lap entirely, but he pulls her near enough that she can lean back against his chest. With her legs slipping from his lap, Vergil's entangles their legs together loosely just as he so often does when they lay in bed and idle away a portion of the morning together. He traces along one of her arms with his fingertips before more firmly wrapping his arms around her.
Quietly, he says, "I already trust you."
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This massage has worked, however, and Mizu doesn't argue her point further. It's set aside but not forgotten as she sighs. Mizu leans against Vergil and runs a hand over his thigh where it touches. It's the heart sutra in slow steady strokes over the same area of skin. If she were to write it properly, she'd use far more of him as a canvas, but they're in the water, relaxed, and there is no inkwell and brush.
Mizu leans her head farther back. Mizu cannot see Vergil in any great angle, but the words catch her by surprise. She spoke in quick heat, of her ability to learn, not of herself more broadly. Yet the two feel intertwined. He trusts she could learn how to give massages, and he trusts... her. "You're safe with me," Mizu says, "You're safe here."
He can sense any threat before she does, but Mizu doesn't mean merely physically safe, something Vergil rarely has need to fear here. She strives that they both feel safe in her home. They're safe to relax in the bath together. They're safe reading books in the mornings. Vergil can reveal anything here and be safe. Here, with her, in this space she's created. Sometimes she holds him in her arms, and she feels expansively large and protective. She has him, and she'll always do right by that. Has in the months since she found words for her desire and the way it matched his.
"Is there anything you want?"
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Mizu leans her head back and promises him that he is safe, and Vergil understands her meaning without the need for clarification. More and more, Vergil has learned to let his guard down. He's imperfect at it, and well-aware of that fact, but he's found himself more often than not trying with those he cares for regardless. For all that it often leaves him feeling vulnerable in ways that make his skin crawl, and he often must endure awkward pauses and silences as others process what he's elected to share, it has typically been a worthwhile risk. But that willingness to take a chance began here with Mizu, and it is precisely because Vergil has nearly always felt some degree of safety with her.
It's why he gives her question serious thought rather than merely brushing it aside as he would with most others. A question that he feels is asked more and more by those around him that care for him in return, and one that he never really possesses a clear answer for no matter how many times or in what different circumstances and ways it's asked. Still, he considers it as best he can before answering.
"Not right now," he says, leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to the fading mark along the slope of her neck. "I have all that I could possibly want."
And that is the honest truth.
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He has all he could possibly want. That's true of the moment, but Mizu thinks it's also true for Vergil in Folkmore. He has his family. He has Mizu. All that he could want is to keep it. His family seems likely to stay, at the very least not to leave by their choice. Mizu set aside learning more on the train, both in the trial with Vergil and in the next with Rin, his pendant around her neck as a comfortable presence. If she truly could have learned something of value, it might have cut down the time she needs to stay by months. Yet it is less the months Mizu's given Vergil than the peace of mind, when she leaves, as much as she can give it. Mizu will not die here, so she can take the time to hurt him as little as possible when the time comes. Let him imagine some life where she steals Kai back from Mikio's lord and makes swords near a small village on the coast of Japan. Mizu has no idea what will happen once she achieves her revenge, but it's pleasant to imagine. She wants that for him, even when she cannot hold onto it herself. She wants for himβ
She messes up a kanji and startles herself a little. Ink once set down cannot be fixed, strokes taken are what they are. Mistakes are mistakes. Mizu sets hers aside and traces the brushstrokes again, properly this time. Her handwriting isn't much. She's forged more knives than written letters. She's written more in the last year, notes on England, than she ever has back in Japan. None of it focused on beauty like scholars might care about. Writing on Vergil, even with her fingers, comes with greater care than any of her notes. That it might look good if it were done with ink.
"Have you ever submerged yourself in the ocean?" Mizu asks, "It's a different sort of peace than the comfort of this hot soak."
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"I haven't," he says while trying to remember when last in his own world, he was near enough to an ocean where he would have possessed the opportunity. It would not have been any sooner than before Nero was born by his estimation, when he chose to stay on Fortuna's island for longer than initially planned. After that, he either was without a will of his own or not his whole self each time he'd been near the water. Vergil brushes aside the thought, such things being inappropriate for where he is presently. He contents himself instead with idly tracing the gentle, subtle curve of Mizu's side as he remembers she once compared him to the ocean. He hadn't understood what she meant at the time considering all the ways the ocean could be perceived, some of which appear to be direct contradictions to one another. "I'm not surprised to find you enjoy it though. I've only known you to occasionally struggle with retaining your focus in Cruel Summer."
Not to say that she allows for it to leave her for long. Even without her favored element, Mizu does not lose sight of a battle, be it a friendly spar or otherwise. But there are significantly fewer options afforded to her there when it comes to seeking out that cool sensation.
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Her fingers continue, tracing over the same small stretch of skin, so the flow from character to character is correct. It's different to write on a thigh than the curve of an arm. She knows that, yet better to practice here than to pull herself away from him. Vergil traces her skin as well, and Mizu wonders what her skin would look like with his poetry spreading across it. The lettering is hard to imagine, even though he's shared passages. Horizontal where she expects it to be vertical. The shapes unfamiliar and foreign. Yet she understands even better now why someone would want to experience it, though Mizu cannot imagine it having the same meaning with a stranger.
She remembers her fight against a demon in Cruel Summer, one Vergil watched. It's true that grounding herself was harder, something that truly could have cost her. Now she knows Vergil watched, she knows it wouldn't cost her her life (he wouldn't allow that), but as temperate as England promises to be, Mizu despises that weakness. She hasn't found a way to fully overcome it.
"I grew up outside of Kohama, a fishing village only worth noting on any map because of swordfather," Mizu shares. "Busy as I was helping swordfather, and I always went to bed exhausted, there was still time to go down to an isolated part of the shore, away from the village, strip my outer layers, and enter the waves. They pound against you as you stay above them, threatening to pull you down, but once you go underneath them, you become a part of them."
Mizu pauses because the words are hard to find. It's a feeling she's known so much of her life and never once put into words. They ebb away from her, and Mizu knows they will fall short, whatever she says. Vergil might turn to poetry, to the shape of someone else's words who has said what he feels better than he can (she's fairly sure that's part of what it is), but Mizu lacks those too. "I'm small, but I'm large. I float, but I'm grounded. It does not compare to anything else."
Her free hand makes a small motion to indicate that's only part of it. There's more she hasn't said, more she cannot say. She says what she can. With a smile, Mizu remembers again the foolish statement she told Vergil, the one he said was poetry. "Except you."
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"Except me," he echoes in return. "You've said something similar once before. Although with fewer details that time."
And more importantly, he's experienced Mizu grounding herself through him much in the way she describes the waves of the ocean and the purpose they serve for her. So, even as her words may fail her, there is still some implicit understanding for what is left unsaid. Vergil isn't certain what exactly it is about him specifically that inspires that feeling in Mizu, but he's glad for it all the same. Because while only simplistic on its surface, Vergil does wish to return that sense of safety and intimacy that he feels with her. She deserves that much. He would actually argue she deserves more, but that much will still do for now at least. There's a brief pause before Vergil makes the decision to not just ponder upon it, but actually give voice to that desire.
"I know that between us, it is not of a transactional nature, but I am pleased nonetheless to know I am able to provide for you something that you seek out in return. It...has not been often in my life that I've wanted to reciprocate anything to anyone. Not anything good, in any case." He's typically avoided it, in fact. Taking what he needs and running before anything could be expected or he could find himself attached enough that he would protect the other's peace. "But I wish for you to feel as protected as I do with you."
Even if it is only to last so long as their time here does and not a moment longer as is the most realistic outcome and expectation, Vergil sees it as far better than nothing for the both of them. At least they shall both have this.
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The ocean will be there when she leaves and cold water when she leaves its shores, but Mizu wishes there were a way to bring some sense of Vergil with her. A pointless wish undoubtedly. She doubts they can bring any item of substance with them when they leave, that they must return as they left. It is why she plans to leave her sword to him, that it might not disappear entirely with her departure. No pendant, no glove, no bit of fabric of his will return with her. Only her memories of him, and that, Mizu suspects, will not be enough to ground her when she needs it. Not the way being with him does. Unfortunate, but nothing more could be expected.
Transactional describes most of Mizu's relations in her life. Even her most recent companions. Ringo wanted to be useful in return for Mizu teaching him. Taigen defended her so that they might have their duel. Akemi wanted Mizu to prevent her return to her father. Before that, her mother wanted to be taken care of and to have money for her drugs. Her marriage with Mikio was entirely based on the labor she would provide. Only swordfather. Now Vergil. For all she's taken, all she used Ringo and Taigen, Mizu and Vergil have long surpassed their terms as sparring partners. There is no ledger, no keeping track of how they have each helped each other. No value assigned and compared between what they do. Mizu receives so much from Vergil, and she wishes to provide for him some measure of such safety. Each moment he relaxes with her, trusts her, and lets her protect him, Mizu only wants to protect him more and to make that safety for him.
"I know because I feel the same," Mizu says. "I've long relaxed when you are here, knowing you'll sense anyone coming before I do. When I lack the cold, water, the ocean, even when I have those, I ground myself with you." Mizu pauses and grimaces a little. "I would have been hard pressed to keep my promise to you, not to search for clues to my fathers on the train, had you not come with me in the form of your pendant. No sooner did we part ways than I was in another world, one I then shared with Rin instead of you, when I was faced with the opportunity to force information from my father's business partner."
Mizu pauses and corrects herself.
"His business partner in that world, a man from Rin's history. He was in my grasp, and I could haveβ" she reaches up and rests her hand over Vergil's pendant or where it would lay, "I killed him and cut down that chance. You return me to myself, that I can choose and do what I decide. That may be the greatest form of protection, not to lose myself but to decide my own fate and make my way. In a fight. In my revenge. In my heart."
Mizu cannot explain why it has come to be that Vergil has near the same effect for her as the ocean and its shadows. It has saved her life more times than she can count. It matters. Perhaps more than the physical safety he provides with his mere presence.
"You are with me nearly every moment," Mizu admits, "when I forged the new steel for my blade, I made it from the brittle blade I first made, and I made it with the glove I stabbed the first time we sparred, and I made it with the jacket I destroyed with a grenade. You are in my sword."
Her cheeks and ears have flushed with color, but Mizu meets Vergil's gaze. Her fingers still against his leg, and she watches him and his reaction. It's been nearly a year, only a couple months shy, since she made her sword. He's been with her long before the first time they kissed. Mizu lacked the words or understanding then, but she knew it was the right choice at the time. It was needed. It would be impossible for Mizu not to feel protected when each swing of her sword carries it.
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Vergil remembers their first spar still so clearly. Reflecting upon it, he can now see the first sparks of attraction beginning to fly between them that escaped his attention back then. Vergil was too distracted at the time with the fight itself. But more importantly, that fight was the one and only time that Vergil has ever yielded. The decision to concede the fight, however, had not been because he was on the verge of defeat. There's a fire that burns within Mizu, brought to the surface each time she wields a blade. It caught Vergil's attention from the beginning of that sparring match as it does even now, occasionally stirring other appetites within him at her displays of strength and skill. But that day, it had begun a wild, uncontrolled blaze, and Vergil realized quickly how such a beautiful, powerful thing within Mizu threatened to consume the swordsman before him. Even with as little personal investment as Vergil had in Mizu back then, when they barely knew each other, he knew he wanted to see that flame tempered. Leaving it as it was would only mean Mizu's eventual death upon returning home.
Back then, it was limits that Vergil set that forced Mizu to temper herself. Mizu chafed at every single one, of course, not hesitating to let her complaints or frustrations be known. It was no secret to Vergil that her compliance stemmed from a mild anxiety that Vergil would refuse her moving forward if she did not adhere to his additional rules. But still, she already felt it such a concession to accept dueling to the death was not allowed that she found his refusal if she was significantly injured still to be an unnecessary stipulation. She was little more than a petulant child huffing and puffing over his unwillingness to part from her until he knew for certain that she tended enough to her wounds that Vergil felt comfortable with leaving Mizu on her own.
But Mizu kept his ruined glove, stained with his blood and useless as an article of clothing. And she followed the rules, and sought out the next sparring match as soon as she could. She spent Lore to give herself an accelerated healing factor so that she could face Vergil again sooner, and she returned to where he'd discarded his ruined coat to collect it. And she ultimately used him to bring balance into her blade, reflective of a balance Vergil has wanted for her before his feelings had grown to be what they are and what he hoped their sparring matches could teach her if nothing else was to be learned or gained from them.
When Vergil meets Mizu's gaze, there's a softness in his eyes as he's unable to contain the swell of emotion to just himself. He knows the weight and meaning of that choice, to include pieces of him in the process of reforging her blade into something stronger, that can serve its purpose better. And the fact that she made that decision before... There is so little good that Vergil can claim to have a hand in. His choices have typically wrought destruction and ruin as unintended consequences, but ones Vergil has done little if anything at all to prevent them all the same. He cannot begin to put into wordsβborrowed or his ownβjust how immense the feeling that follows her admission. Mizu is not the only one with a bit more color in her face or tips of her ears than there was a moment ago.
Instead of trying (and likely failing) to put it into any words, Vergil leans forward to kiss Mizu instead. It does not lack in passion, but it is not a heated, rushed expression of it. Rather, much like how they settled into this hot bath, it allows for the comfortable weight of their feelings for one another to blanket over them slowly in this space they've made and protect together. Vergil's hand at her side remains, keeping an arm around her, as his other hand covers Mizu's over his half of the amulet.
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Vergil was always worthy of her true blade. Her concern was herself and the blade she'd make. Their conversation about it helped, as well the way they met blades. Vergil's rules bristled, but they never came from disrespecting her as an opponent. No matter that the more she's learned and seen and even experienced in memory, Mizu knows he holds himself back and could press her even harder. Yet he enjoys it and finds it worthwhile. He looked after her when he did not need to. He made himself safe, that Mizu could push so hard she fell unconscious and trust him to mind the boundaries of her clothes and body. Vergil wants her to feel as safe with him, as he does her? It is a rare instance that Mizu allows herself to fight so hard as to lose consciousness without it being to the death. He's had trust from the beginning built somehow over past wrongs and common ground.
Her shortcomings, her flaws, her body's frailties, all of it was accepted. Swordfather's always insisted that an impurity in the right place is a quality, but those words never penetrated so deeply as for Mizu to see it in herself. Still, she struggled with that. She struggles to this day. Her inclination to make a sword too brittle, not too soft. To be too hard, inflexible. Mizu's hardly reached some remarkable best form of herself she could ever be, only a better swordsman than she has been. That was her goal from the start with sparring Vergil. Mizu simply didn't understand all the ways he'd see her to that goal. No that she's done. She's better, yes, but she can be better yet. Like she's a living blade not yet forged and completed.
The sword is the soul of a samurai. Mizu is no samurai, but her sword is her soul, the most intimate part of herself. Vergil is a part of it, a simple statement of fact yet one that says more than words can ever say. Words that fail Vergil as well. He leans in, and Mizu releases some of the tension that built waiting. Her fingers tighten around the pendant and press into the skin beneath them. Mizu kisses Vergil back, words not fully capturing her feelings as well, and awareness of the room around them, the cabin, and the snow beyond fade away, such that someone could climb the stairs with Mizu none the wiser. Yet none the more in danger because she leaves that to Vergil.
She hadn't realized how much she wanted Vergil to know about her sword without a sense of how to tell him or when or even perhaps why she did not wish to give him her sword when he gave her his pendant. It would give him part of her, yes, but it would rob her of him too. It was not the time to explain, not in depth, and her words felt so short a measure of comfort compared to his. Not a competition, not a price to be paid, and not as necessary perhaps when she was the one more tempted by the trial. So she takes Vergil as hers and part of her and gives herself in return in the kiss. It is not so different a position than all the times he's carried her after sparring, the difference in knowing. Vergil knows better the depth of Mizu's feelings, the arc of those feelings, and Mizu safe as ever and accepted.
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"I loved and guessed at you. You construed me, and loved me for what might or might not be," he recites quietly, only borrowing a few lines from the otherwise brief poem. "Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong. For verily love knows not 'mine' or 'thine.'"
The words still feel as though they fall short of fully reflecting all that he feels, but they are close as he is liable to find in his own or another's in being able to speak of it. A love so accepting and so deep that it becomes one, and in turn, by sharing it, they are one as well. To that end, it does not matter what is to become of them or how inevitable it is that they shall leave this place one day and without the other. It is as they promised to each other, that they shall always belong to the other. There is no amount of time or distance that will unmake any of this. Not even heartache nor grief can replace it.
Vergil dips his head to the faded mark, placing a few light kisses before taking the skin into his mouth. He takes his time in darkening it again, alternating between his efforts in bruising the skin and teasing it with the light graze of his teeth or brushing over it with his lips. It's a different tempo than when he had left the mark the first time, more akin to the massage he'd given her than a ravenous hunger wherein the point is more for her to linger in each sensation.
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Vergil speaks words that may begin as his but carry on into phrases she believes he borrows. They do not all make sense to her, but the final sentiment is simple and clear. There is no ledger or accounting between them. They do not act because they owe each other as much love as the other has given. They love, and they both act accordingly. Where they cannot communicate themselves, where they might not understand everything, it does not matter. The ease with which Mizu does not judge what Vergil offers or ever feels he comes up short, he feels the same of her.
Mizu sighs softly as he pays further attention to the lightly sore stretch of skin. It's already fading, it was, before this moment. Her head tilts to make it easier, and she holds tightly to him, tight enough to bruise in her own right. Bruises Mizu knows she won't see, faded back into the empty stretches of his skin. That hunger grows patiently in the back of her mind. It's soft attention, for all it bruises again, and Mizu treasures it. She waits, and it's some time before she pulls herself higher, her chest leaving the warm water. Mizu tugs his head farther down and taps the skin hard over bone in the middle of her chest. "That's where your pendant lay that day, and I would carry you with me there again."
It rested against her bindings, but fresh marks will lie closer to her.
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But it's only a brief moment of hesitation before he begins to oblige her request. Vergil's hand falls from hers and he disentangles their legs as he licks away the rivulets and beads of water that linger upon the canvas of her skin. With his freed hand, Vergil swings her legs back over his lap while his hand at her side slips to the small of her back and scoops her into his lap. As is usual, Vergil lifts Mizu as though she weighed nothing at all, a sensation likely heightened even further by the more weightless motion through the water. Mizu does not need any sort of help in remaining seated higher above the water even with a tub as deep as the one she has here, but that was not the point. The air just above the water and the air throughout the bathroom are not exactly cold and absolutely not the sort that she often seeks out, but it is still cooler than the water itself, and especially where their bodies meet one another. It's enough to feel a difference, to draw more subtle attention to the sensation of his mouth and breath on her skin. Vergil grips at her thigh firmly while his hand at her back adds some support to the way she must slightly twist to provide him access.
It's a bit more work to leave a mark there than his favored locations for marks on her skin, but Vergil is nothing if not patient and persistent with the task. Just as he had when freshening the mark on her neck, he alternates between sucking hard at her skin and teasing it balancing accomplishing what she's asked with allowing her to enjoy the process from start to finish. By the time he finishes, the spot is redder than the rest of her skin that's been heated by the water. Vergil is certain it should darken and bruise like every other mark by then and allows his affections to her skin to wander then. He turns his head slightly aside so that he is able to trail kisses over the swell of her breast before drifting over her heart and ending with the round of her shoulder. Resting a cheek against her shoulder then, Vergil looks up at her the best he can.
"Wherever you will it, I will always mark my love upon you. As with all things of mine that I've willingly surrendered to you, it is yours to claim as you will."
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Given the location, the stretch of skin over bone, Mizu surprises herself with how much she enjoys receiving the mark, not only the thought and conclusion of it. Goosebumps spread across her shoulders, and Mizu nearly whines when he stops. The continued attention defeating the sound in her throat. She breathes a little harder and looks down, though his face doesn't come easily into focus. Instead it's a warmth against her shoulder, again warmer than the air around them. Surprising how she nearly shivers with how warm it is.
Mizu lets go of his pendant to run a finger over the tender skin he's left her. She traces the rough shape of the pendant and smiles. "I always want to carry you with me, so much even my sword is not always enough. I want more," Mizu says. Relaxed as she is, a little more slips out. "It feels odd when I have not a single mark from you on my skin."
Even with multiple marks from Vergil, Mizu feels that strong urge for more, some need she doesn't look too closely at. Yet the ghost lingers, the desire to carry him with her more than memories and the connection they have. Something more than her mind and, given her sword, her soul. He's before her, so it's a foolish thought, and Mizu sets it aside without more consideration.
"If only I could do the same."
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"Your attempts have not been unwelcome," he says, the hand upon her thigh tracing along the outside of it to her knee before returning along the top of it until he very nearly meets her pelvis. It's a slow, soothing touch. Vergil knows it often frustrates Mizu to no end that his own healing factor prevents her from leaving such physical reminders of her affection, proof of their connection to one another. Would that Vergil could, he would slow his own healing for the sole purpose of allowing her marks to linger for longer. But his ability is not like hers. He cannot target specific injuries and leave the rest alone. His body naturally seeks to heal the most significant damage. He would not likely be in the position to allow for her marks if his body were to ignore them. But he does still enjoy the sensations just the same as her if nothing else. "But I am not without you simply because you have not been able to leave a visible mark. I have your scent and you occupy no small part of my mind when we are apart."
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Mizu sighs, "Scent fades so quickly."
His better sense of smell extends the time he carries her, but it's a matter of days. New odors and scents overwhelm old ones. There's a reason she wears his clothes when he's gone. Well, more than one, but that is one of them. Especially when she visits Cruel Summer and comes away smelling so terribly of demon even she sees need of a bath, no matter how recently she's washed herself. Mizu doesn't understand why or how the fighting pits have such a steady stream of demons from Vergil's world, but she's gotten better at fighting them. Individually. She isn't yet prepared for crowds of them the way she can handle groups of men.
"What is my occupation of your mind like?" Mizu asks. The only place she may last and one that will change unavoidably one day. It cannot be helped.
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So, he continues tracing her skin and he answers her question.
"It varies, depending on the circumstances," he says, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to her shoulder. "For example, on mornings I wake uncertain if I will see you that day, I wish I was with you so we could waste hours of the morning in whatever manner we pleased. But the closest I can be is imagining the weight and warmth of you on the bed beside me."
Vergil pulls back from resting his head against her shoulder to look at her properly. It's plain that he is looking at her that same way before they got into the bath together, but Vergil also holds in his mind's eye the image of her that he describes.
"The gentle sound of your breath and that look of peace on your face when you're still sound asleep, neither of which I possess the heart to ever willingly disturb because if I did not know it was a gift you've unwittingly given to me countless times, I would think it mere fantasy for all the calm and peace I feel within myself." The hand at her back slips away in favor of intertwining fingers with one of her hands. "But if I know I am to see you, I've no need for such visions to act as comfort in staving off a lonely morning. I've all my thoughts of what is to come even if it is a great test of my patience to have to wait and fill my time with other things between waking and when I see you again because all I can think of is what I wish to do with you, to say to you, to share with you.
"Mizu, you are among my first and last thoughts each day. There are reminders of you for me littered throughout each day I am not at your side that I'm sure you would find foolish. But you bring me peace and happiness each time I think of you, and I think of you often."
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It is indeed a lonely morning. Those weeks at Amrita, whatever else they did, introduced her to them by spending every night together. That might have continued afterward, save that Dante stayed with Vergil. Then Nero arrived. Mizu will not tear him apart from his family nor ask him to choose between them. A fool's errand, even if she were so selfish of him and his happiness to consider trying to keep him all to herself. That would never work, and if it did, in the end, it would only leave him alone. Far better that Vergil has people, the life he came to Folkmore to seek, with or without her.
Mizu does not understand how he can think so well of her, how thoughts of her can bring him peace and happiness without the dark shadow of separation that waits for them. It is of her making without any need of the fox spirit's interference to heighten the drama into a tragedy.
"I am not that good," Mizu declares, "You wonderful idiot."
She pulls him in for a kiss, hard and demanding. Demanding what, Mizu isn't certain, only that she needs Vergil and something from him. No, perhaps it's to give something to him. She breaks it off with a grunt of frustration to kiss and bite her way down his jaw and to his neck. There, Mizu makes yet another attempt at leaving her mark on him. She sucks and bites and pulls on his skin. Over and over, she gives herself to the effort, but the mark doesn't stay. It never stays. She leans her face into his neck, eyes damp. That image he painted will disappear after she does. Mizu knows it.
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Mizu breaks the kiss with a noise that sounds near to a growl, but Vergil does not stop her. He does not, however, sink into the feeling of her mouth against his skin. There is too much disconnect between the act and himself, between Mizu and him for him to feel even the harshest press of her teeth as happening to his own skin. For all that Mizu has been confused regarding his thoughts of and feelings for her, never has she had such force behind her refutation of it. Not even when he called her beautiful had there been such an energy behind it.
He finds it... he finds it so difficult to understand. Months ago, he had taken her on the floor of her living room, and in that fit of passion sprung forth a greater intimacy than either of them had ever really known. Vergil let the words slip from him as quietly as he could for fear of a reaction like this one. But he received its opposite then.
She buries her face in his neck and Vergil wraps his arms firmly around her. He doesn't believe it will make a difference to how she's feeling, but Vergil doesn't know what else to do, how to possibly soothe what she's feeling. He considers it briefly, but declaring his feelings firmly and true would likely only produce a worse result. Mizu knows how he feels, and to some extent, that appears to be the problem. Asking her to explain it to him doesn't even cross his mind as a possibility. Teasing her even gently or at his own expense just seems cruel. So, he is left without any words. Not his own. Not borrowed. Useless as it feels to him, a warm embrace and silent patience is all he can offer.
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She feels his heartbeat against her, and Mizu focuses on the steady beat. It slowly calms her until her breathing feels less ragged. Until she feels more like herself. More at ease. As foolish as it is, it's him. It's Vergil grounding her as he's grounded her so many times before. The thought Vergil will come to hate her or despise her or wish he hadn't known her, once she is gone, continues to come to mind. It may be true, and there's nothing she can do about that. She's been clear about her goals, about her plans, from the very beginning.
Mizu continues to lean against him, and unlike when they spar or make love, she feels small. "I'm sorry," Mizu says softly, "That wasn't your fault."
Vergil deserves better. The least Mizu can do is treat him right while she's here. His feelings and thoughts toward her are wonderful, better than she deserves, but his and his to have. Mizu will not pretend either of them are perfect. Vergil's done terrible things, but he's never done them to her. He's never treated her anything less than well.
"Did you ever plan to stay," Mizu asks, "in Fortuna?"
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At her question, Vergil's gaze darts away to elsewhere in the bathroom. He has no desire to lie to Mizuβnever has and never willβbut the answer comes coupled with shame and guilt. It's not something that he allows himself to dwell upon, but that is the only way he finds peace from it given that the unintended consequences from his choice irrevocably shaped the rest of his son's life. Never mind the lingering question of whether or not Beatrice's life was cut short as a consequence of his absence. There is nothing that can ever truly make the guilt and shame with that leave him entirely with both of those things weighing upon him.
"No," he admits with his next breath. "I was merely there to gather what information I could about my father."
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She watches Vergil's reaction to her question, the pain he feels clear cut. A decision he would change, given what he knows now, given who he is now. He didn't know what would happen as a consequence of his decision. Vergil left Nero's mother behind after what, Mizu's reasonably sure, they both knew was a relationship that would not last. Everything Vergil's told her says the woman was smart. She knew what she was doing, and she made her choices too. Vergil made the choice in line with his goals, in line with what the two of them knew their relationship to be.
Vergil regrets it. Mizu feels worse in that moment, as she traces the smooth skin of his neck, already no mark marring it. He regrets it, however, because of Nero primarily, what happened to him. Perhaps to a lesser extent, whatever happened to the woman he loved. Those aren't concerns Mizu has to contend with. She cannot leave him pregnant, and Vergil is powerful enough to live and to survive on his own without her. He even has Dante and Nero watching his back, should some threat truly emerge. It's not the same situation, no matter that Mizu is merely here to gather what information she can about her fathers.
Mizu cups Vergil's face and kisses his forehead. That he made a fair decision in that moment matters little to him, and Mizu cannot wipe those pained feelings away from him. "You don't know what would have happened if you stayed. Only what happened when you left."
They aren't meant to be absolution. Only the truth. "You were hunted, were you not? You could have drawn that attention to them."
Because the truth, so often, is terrible. Mizu understands only having bad decisions to make, one or the other. She sighs. What happened to Vergil and Dante didn't happen to Nero. That's something.
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"I know, Mizu," he says, harsher than he means and jerking his face free from her hold. Vergil does not mean to lash out at her. Even if Mizu is probing at old wounds and regrets, he knows there not to be malicious intent behind it. But knowing that does not make it a less of a sore subject. "But what does knowing change? I did not plan to stay in Fortuna, but that does not mean part of me did not want to stay. It was the firstβ"
Vergil cuts himself off, looking away from Mizu with a slight shake of his head. He's quiet a moment, brow furrowed in a combination of frustration and anger at himself for his past decisions, and his seeming inability to convey why this regret is one he cannot reason with.
"After the attack on my family, I never once thought to stay. Not once did I feel the temptation. Even knowing the likelihood that the families who took me in suffered a terrible fate for looking after me, I never looked back. I do not now." Vergil looks at Mizu in a brief glance, unable to bring himself to fully meet her eyes. "But I will always look back at that decision with regret, Mizu. I had a chance for everything that I truly wanted even beyond my conscious mind. And I threw it away because I was too afraid of losing it. I left without saying anything because I feared I would not be strong enough to walk away otherwise, but I feared being too weak to stay.
"And yet, that choice changed nothing. It merely sealed her fate. Doomed Nero to grow up more alone than he should have ever been."
Vergil does not understand how it is Nero forgives him. Even knowing that Vergil did not know of his existence is not enough to absolve him of the hand he had in Nero's upbringing, in believing himself not to be enough and unworthy of even the barest scrap of love. Vergil does not think if their positions were reversed, he would have the ability to forgive so easily. He certainly doesn't even now.
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She listens. Of course part of him wished to stay. Mizu assumed as much from the way he spoke about his time there, about the relationship he forged. It would be stranger if such feeling did not form in his heart, an impurity to his purpose. It could make his resolution bitter, or it could make him stronger. From all Mizu knows of Vergil, she'd say it was an impurity in the right place. She could even go so far as to say it's what saved him from shattering a second time, what allowed him to pull himself together again and become who he is.
His need for survival may have doomed families who did nothing more than take in and care for an orphaned child, but Mizu feels no pity for them. By Vergil's own words, people stopped taking him in once he got a little older. People whose kindness does not extend to an older child are not that good. Their deaths do not sit with her, not even if every last family that helped Vergil died. The shame is that those who refused to help him didn't die as well.
Both options Vergil faced sparked fear of weakness. Too weak to leave, too weak to stay. He knew the target he'd place on Beatrice's back if he stayed, and he thought he might be too weak to protect her. The very issue Mizu raised by suggesting he could have brought demons to her. She grimaces a little because she did not mean to call Vergil weak. The fear was logical, however. All his father's strength failed to prevent the calamity that orphaned Vergil and Dante. He sought that power, to be as powerful as his father, to be more powerful. How powerful does he need to be to feel capable of protecting those he loves? Mizu isn't sure, but Nero has power aplenty in his own right.
"Regret it," Mizu says and accepts that he will. "So long as you don't let that regret drive you to further regrets. Make it strengthen you, not weaken you."
Mizu should have seen through her mother from the moment she saw the woman alive and well. She abandoned Mizu and never came searching for her. The woman only saw Mizu back to health for the security and regular access to drugs it could bring. She never should have married Mikio for her mother's sake. Perhaps if she saw through her, Mizu would spend her life wondering how it might have been. If it might have been what she wanted, but she knows now it wasn't. It never could have been.
If only she and Vergil had the opportunity outside Folkmoreβ
No point wishing for what she saw on the train, that perfect life that offered her everything. Mizu is not the sort of person who can get what she wants.
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"I choose to stay with you, do I not?" he ask, quietly. Even when he questions whether he has the proper strength to stay, to be what she needs him to be, Vergil has yet to leave when she's asked him to stay. In fact, it's unlikely that he would leave barring her asking him to do as much.
Vergil does not give her a chance to answer, leaning up to press his lips to hers in a bruising, insistent kiss.
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Mizu only starts to smile, a bittersweet ache in her heart, before Vergil kisses her. Until she needs to leave, Mizu has him, and she parts her lips to let him in. He's here in her home, here in the privacy of her chambers, here in her heart. She trusts him with it all. Her doubts are entirely her own, in herself. Whatever the future brings, she can give herself entirely to Vergil tonight. Perhaps not trust herself to hold him and to take him tonight, too much balanced on the edge of a blade, but she will find a way while here. He deserves that safety. The safety she feels, even now this very moment, with him.
Mizu kisses Vergil back and hopes he feels that safety he's made for her rather than the shame he carries. Everything he might have wished to be for Beatrice, he is for her.
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Vergil kisses her until they're both left just slightly breathless. Their lips barely part from one another, enough that they share in the breath. Almost magnetically, he's drawn to kiss her again, although it's briefer, smaller kisses that still allow for the both of them to catch their breath.
"I love you."
The words are spoken softly and quietly between little kisses, but not in the way he spoke them the first time. That first time, his quiet speaking had been out of hopes that perhaps she would not hear, that he could retain plausible deniability to avoid rejection of such a direct statement his feelings. The quiet way of saying them now is because they are words meant for her and her alone even though there is no one else around to hear them. Vergil does not make a habit of saying them often even after having braved saying them that first time, but he says them now freely. They are feelings that he would have divorced himself from in his youth, yet he is willing to embrace here and now with her.
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He didn't have to say them again, he doesn't ever, but greedy, Mizu breathes them in. They are soft and gentle but firm and sure of themselves. No matter that Mizu just made a fool of herself in front of him. It takes a moment to remember that came not long from baring her soul and admitting she's taken representation of him, of the relationship they started, into her sword. That too was tonight. She feels raw and tender but secure in his arms. She kisses him again and again.
His love feels so solid and secure a thing, hers fragile and waiting to break. It hasn't broken yet, and Mizu knows how she feels. She knows how it feels to hear it. So despite how inadequate it feels, it's what she can offer, all she can offer. Her love. With her arms wrapped around him, Mizu says as softly, "I love you."
An imperfect brittle thing, as hideous as she is, yet somehow he makes that beautiful. He sees something in it.
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Vergil's next kiss is more earnest, more wanting than the smaller ones that precede it. He nips lightly at her lower lip until her lips part for him once more, his tongue meeting hers. He sighs, pleased, as his hand leaves her cheek for between her shoulder blades in almost a mirror of how she so often touches him. Vergil's other arm loosens so that his hand comes to her lap. Fingers drag along her thigh until he reaches her knee, nudging at it to part from the other and grant him access to touch her.
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Mizu parts her knees as much as she can and stay in his lap. She resists the urge to push closer toward his hand, but one hand reaches partway toward the water before she catches herself from pulling him closer thoughtlessly. He might tease her terribly for it, but after a second thought, Mizu strokes her fingers down his arm toward his wrist to pull it closer. She wants to forget about everything else but them, but him. She's damn well not meditating her way there.
nsfw warning
"If you're that impatient, perhaps you should take care of matters more yourself," he says, teasing her as she predicted he might, before kissing along her jaw. He speaks low into her ear when he reaches the corner of her jaw. Vergil pushes her fingers gently near to her entrance, drawing a line to a teasing stroke of her clit as he speaks. "Then perhaps the next time you find yourself in my clothes...and alone...I could occupy a corner of your mind."
The reality is that Vergil doubts very much Mizu dedicates much time if any at all to that. Whatever arguments she makes to herself to allow for such indulgences with him likely do not hold much weight in pleasuring herself alone, assuming the thought even occurs to her in the first place. But reality is not the point. The point is building a fantasy. Regardless of whether or not Mizu ever thinks of this later or acts upon it, both of them will still possess the memory of his hand over hers as she pleasures herself in want of him. It's a sweeter thing, he thinks, than to simply miss him. A longing with release that was not dependent upon his physical presence.
Re: nsfw warning
Vergil continues to speak, and the image he paints appears like brushstrokes in her mind. Even then, even in this image, he ghosts the scene. His clothes, his scent, the memory of his hand on hers, weighted further because she feels his fingers over hers. Mizu groans, sinking further against his hand at her back. Her longing for Vergil when he's gone fuels the image he paints. They're together this moment, and Mizu wants him more. Like he's a figment of her imagination.
"When I wear your clothes," Mizu manages, her fingers repeating the slow movements. She bites her lip, not to quiet herself but not to rush faster. When he's gone she always wants to feel him as long as she can. "You're always on my mind."
Sometimes with bodily longing, but that ache goes unanswered until next she sees him. Not this time, not in the image in her mind. She's on her bed in her mind's eye, a book of poetry spread open on the bed beside her. Even the pillow smells faintly of him. It's all him. Her fingers move in small circles. As with swordplay, she imitates ways he's teased her before. She breathes harder. "I lie where you did on the bed."
It's what she sees.
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Vergil dips his head to kiss along her throat, nipping at it lightly, and allowing her to seamlessly take the lead in teasing herself with her fingers. He's come to know her body well, and he's pleased to see Mizu's paid just as much attention when she's able to take the lead, touching and pleasuring herself in want of him. To say it's a thrill to bear witness to would be an understatement. And there is a temptation, of course, to pleasure her further beyond her touch alone to both reward and fulfill that want, but Vergil resists it for now. Mizu is taking it slower than that, and he follows her pace and movements.
"Where I would want you. Close to me," he murmurs against her skin. As close as she could be in that circumstance. Vergil returns to her lips, the languidness of the kiss mimicking the movement of her fingers. He breaks the kiss, but remains near to her lips. "You could close your eyes until it's easier to imagine it's not your hand alone convincing you to stay in bed just a little while longer. I'm right there with you."
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Already, small grunts and labored breathing escapes her. It's what she neededβto be loved and to be wanted despite everything terrible about her and what she'll do to him. It amazes her, and each time he speaks, each stroke of pleasure, drives away other thoughts so he holds her body and mind. Mizu kisses Vergil back instinctively, but she hungers for his words. So close, she can hardly see him now, but she pretends how she feels him fills the scene in her mind. His body warm and close, holding her, around her, touching her. His clothes a pale stand-in for Vergil but enough to bring him more to life.
"You are the reason I stay in bed," Mizu says, words harder. "You and your... many tricks." Mizu says it affectionately. Vergil has no job that needs doing, and Folkmore does not force it. Yet she's a person of habit, early to rise. Here he goes adding another one, for a morning when she's slept in his clothes and wakes smelling him. The bed would be cold, unless she slept in his spot. So she imagines doing so, going to bed alone, and waking with him curled around her, somehow still on the same side of the bed as her. A fantasy within a fantasy and a pleasant one at that.
Her legs kick a little as she imagines it further. "I tangle my legs in the sheets, like you're holding them."
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At the mention of her sheets tangling with her legs, he moves his tail further along the leg he's draped it over, slipping it beneath her calf. But despite his firm hold on her leg, Vergil does not manipulate the positioning of it. Sheets, after all, would not have the strength to move her legs, but the sense memory of the weight of his tail may return to her another time. Vergil does, however, separate his hand enough from Mizu's to tease her entrance once more with his own fingers.
"Each time you press into the mattress, you press into me." Vergil kisses the corner of her lips before resuming his trail along her neck, teasing at her recently refreshed mark as though he may yet add more to it. "And you know how rapacious my appetite is for you. I won't give you what you want until you cannot stand that want any longer."
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There's longer yet, Mizu resists begging far longer than she withholds being demanding. The words Vergil speaks turns it nearly into one of their games, where she must last as long as she can. Her chest heaves, and Mizu presses into his hand and tail with complete trust that he has her and supports her. Her body grows more tense, her toes curling, and she rocks toward her own hand, toward Vergil's.
"I want you," Mizu tells him, "Like metal wants to be forged. It'd be so easy to grant myself relief, but I..." She shudders as she moves her fingers in circles to drive her want further. "Don't. I don't want it to end. I want you."
Her words flow with little thought to them. Mizu's too distracted to paint much of an image with her words. It's longing, freely given.
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He does not think much of what she says about not wanting it to end. At the very least, Vergil does not believe it more than a want of the fantasy to last. Even if it comes coupled with such relief and release, the end of a fantasy is akin to that of waking from a pleasant dream. It leaves behind a good, warm feeling, but the specifics of it are far too quick to fade from one's mind. Mizu is drifting further away from fantasy as she loses herself to the sensations she's feeling here and now. He doesn't doubt that may be yet true should she ever use this moment, this fantasy later in his absence. How much harder might it be for her to hold onto his words, his face, the feeling of his hands upon her when floods of pleasure threaten to drown her?
"Have me then," he says, slipping a finger inside her finally. Vergil turns his head to repeat the words in her ear, little more than a breath as he presses another finger inside her. "It's not the end. I'm yours, Mizu. Whenever you want me, I'm always yours."
The fantasy may take a moment to pause upon her climax as she loses total sense of herself and perhaps even connection with her own body beyond the waves of pleasure crashing into her again and again. But she can still find him once more as she comes down from the high. She may be more cognizant that she's in her own bed alone, tangled in sheets rather than with him directly. But he will still be there. His scent, his clothes, the memory and vision of him in her mind's eye. Even that warm, languid feeling that follows, Mizu can find him close to her still. Vergil hooks his fingers inside her to reach and attend to that sweet spot within.
"Come for me."
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She both rocks harder against her own movements and grows tense, body locking up more and more so that it does not listen to commands. Her words are gone, loud moans and whining replacing them. A steady stream that builds in volume with her pleasure. He speaks, and the words penetrate in a haze. Her arm around him tightens, and her hand digs into his shoulder where it lays. Around her, with her, in her, Mizu has Vergil. She can no longer tell whether the fantasy is of her in bed fantasizing or Vergil in bed with her, meeting her pleasure as he is now.
The pleasure overtakes her like the ocean, not one wave but an onslaught of them that surrounds her and keeps coming. Everything flashes blank, and Mizu shakes and shudders. Her fingers stop moving against her, and the tremors ebb away. They leave Mizu warm and boneless. Her head leans against Vergil, and she lets her eyes stay closed a while. She can smell him, feel him, and little else. Her arm hangs limp in her lap, and Mizu stays there, the echoes of pleasure racking through her. She's not sure how long she stays there, it feels both instantaneous and stretched toward forever. She's satisfied then to do...
Nothing. Simply be there in Vergil's arms.
In time, she nuzzles closer and says softly, "I always want you."
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He returns her nuzzling affectionately.
"I am always yours to have," he says back like a sacred promise. Whether it is limited to just her mind or not, Vergil is hers as he promised before. She needn't want or long for him.
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Vergil is in every part of Mizu's life in Folkmore. More important than what help he's occasionally given to her research are all the memories of reading together. Mizu speaks up when she finds something of interest or something Vergil might have insight into, as different as their worlds might be. He bought her the tools she uses to make weapons, and he's a part of her sword and with it every fight she uses it in. He brought Kai back to her life. Sometimes it's a small part, sometimes it's larger. Like a series of woodblock prints, he can always be found somewhere on each one.
That's why she can say, "I know."
She knows without him saying it, but she likes to hear him say it. Mizu sits up so she can see his face. She gestures toward the bedroom, where they undressed. "You're not getting that shirt back tonight. Or tomorrow. I have one that smells like me you can wear."
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"Is that so?" Vergil brings one of his hands up to her face, caressing it. It's no secret he's admiring her eyes this close, as he is often wont to do. "I suppose since you don't intend to send me home without anything to wear at all, I'll indulge your whims this time."
As though Vergil is not always ready and primed to indulge her whims, and that he didn't already have a suspicion that she was going to lay claim to his shirt tonight so it was more or less a foregone conclusion that he would be wearing one of the shirts he left here last time.
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Her eyes light up in amusement as Vergil mentions going home naked. "It would be better I send you off with nothing at all than only a shirt, would it not?" Mizu asks, "You need only transform until you reached the privacy of your room. Carrying or wearing a shirt like that would only draw more attention to you."
She pauses. "I suppose you could don the shirt before you transform. That would work, and it would make that shirt smell like you faster."
The greatest issue at stake, clearly.
"Why then, I could dress entirely in your clothes with only modest effort to account for your size." Mizu is tall, for a woman, but many men are taller than her still. Vergil among them. It's no serious idea, given he's nearly a head taller than her. His shirts drape her, and she has no experience with the sorts of clothes he wears that she'd easily take them in to wear them properly. Yet there's an appeal there beyond Vergil forced to transform to hide his human nakedness.
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"So, I have merely planted the seeds for more devious schemes," Vergil says, his hand moving to hold Mizu's chin instead. Vergil gives her face a playful shake at her hypothetical plans for stealing all of his clothes in mock disapproval. "I know you to be plainly useless in protecting my remaining virtue, but that you would even consider sending me home naked or very nearly naked for your own gain..."
Vergil turns her face aside by the time he's done shaking it. But he only turns it aside for the sole purpose of leaning up and kissing her cheek as he wraps his arm back around her.
"I suppose Kai is not the only one being spoiled rotten around here if you're coming up with ideas like that and speaking of them so confidently," he teases, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth before settling back.
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"Beyond our sparring, you have yet to deny me anything," Mizu says. She leans in and kisses the corner of Vergil's mouth. "Every time I have asked you for something, you have given it to me without reservation. You have granted my wishes before I knew I had them."
She cannot consider herself and Akemi, the princess the one who comes to mind at the idea of someone spoiled rotten. She expects people to do her bidding and serve her needs with little thought to what they might want or consider for themselves. Though Mizu must admit she's strong willed enough to see herself through where other spoiled sorts would crumble. No, that's not the image of spoiled Vergil teases and paints. It's far more awe inspiring. As little as Vergil may be inclined to return home transformed and naked but for the natural armor that protects him, Mizu firmly knows he would if she truly and deeply needed, no wanted, his clothes for her own that instant.
Kai herself is the way Vergil most spoiled Mizu. Not once did she consider that Kai could come to Folkmore. Only one day, near her birthday, the horse stood before her home alone. No one with her. No note. Nothing. Only an impossible reunion that saw Mizu squeal with delight as she's never done before. Every day Mizu feeds Kai and rides with her, the ground disappearing below Kai's blur of hooves. And Mizu? Mizu feels the happiness she felt then. Twofold for their separation.
Mizu says nothing, yet again, about Vergil giving her Kai. She knows.
"Where are your selfish whims that would take my virtue, had I any?" Mizu asks, "Or ought I spoil you more. Tell me what you want."
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And then there is the question again. Except it's not posed as a question, as she had earlier. When she asked, Vergil considered the question carefully at its surface of what he might want and came up short. In of itself, that is not all that peculiar. Rarely is it that Vergil has an answer when anyone asks him what he wants. But when she asked then, Vergil pushed past reflex to sincerely consider it and really could not think of more that he might want in that moment. He came here tonight to ensure that Mizu was able to eat well as his chief priority. But the secondary was to have her time and attention, to be close to her and share in affection with her in the ways they only do when they're alone. He did not care what the shape of all that took, only that it was there. And it was. It still is.
...But still Vergil cannot help feeling that the answer ought to be different as well. He isn't certain if it's because the question is delivered differently or if it's a consequence of the frustration that was spilling out from her earlier when Mizu could not appreciably mark his skin that only makes itself known now. He just knows it feels wrong somehow to say there's nothing that he wants, nothing that she can give him.
"It is one thing to ask me to consider a hypothetical, but it is another to ask me to entertain an impossible one," he teases lightly on the matter of her virtue, allowing the playful ribbing to act as a buffer rather than silence. Comfortable as they both as with silence between them, Vergil thinks it would rest too heavily now that he does not want to chance it. "It is difficult for me to long for anything when the greatest of my wants is right here in my lap."
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As much as she takes, Mizu wants to give him as muchβanything he might want or even not know he wants. With great pleasure, she's discovered his hungry desire when she defeats a demon in the fighting pits and the heady truth that she can take him in all the varied tenderness and need as he takes her. Something Madam Kaji opted not to show her that night before they reached their agreement. Mizu's greed extends to wanting to give Vergil as much in return, and perhaps, just perhaps, Mizu feels comfortable enough to brush against the thought, to give him enough that it sustains him when she's gone.
Briefly considered, Mizu sets the thought aside.
"I hope you think of me and manifest that longing when I am gone, as I have just done imagining mornings when we're apart," Mizu says softly. She brushes his cheek and would not blame him if he were chastened by living with his family, a door so flimsy a thing between them. "Now when you wake, you can know I may have thought of you and done the same."
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Hey. ( Crunch. ) Whatcha doin'?
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I'm... [The furrow deepens as he takes in the sight of his brother, and more importantly, his attire. Vergil's gaze goes from the sunglasses to the shirt back to the glasses to the loud shirt again.] ...What the hell are you wearing?
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Well. That's a lie really. He damn well knew his brother would comment on his current state of dress, but! He doesn't mind at all. In fact! He practically beams at his brother choosing to comment on that. Popping another cheesy chip into his mouth β crunch β he smiles. )
You like it? Well, that's great, 'cause I picked one up for you, too.
( He pops another chip on in that big old mouth of his. )
We can match!
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[His lips pinch as his jaw clenches in his disgust at the notion, and as he realizes there is no way he can possibly ascertain anything beyond sincerity from Dante.]
...You need to leave the house more. You're starting to develop cabin fever and grow delusional.
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( He shakes a cheesy fingered hand at Vergil's words, smile still there on his lips. )
I won't hear anything of the sort. You're my brother and I didn't want you to feel left out, so I made sure to pick one up for you, too. ( Hand dropping down to crinkle the bag he has while fishing around for another chip, that smile just grows brighter. ) It's dark blue with palm trees on it.
( Crunch. )
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You shouldn't have.
[Really. He shouldn't have.]
[Does Dante really expect him to wear something like that? Surely not. At any point, he's going to say he's just kidding. There is no horrid shirt like that. Any minute now.]
[...]
[Say psych, Dante. Say psych right now!]
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...and that's when he holds up a cheesy flavored chip to Vergil's mouth. You know, if he wants one for himself. )
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action / may 2025
Had he recognized something in her and was trying to send her a very specific message with his choice of recommendation? Or did he simply think the topic itself was interesting and worthy of thought? It takes her some time to feel more capable of not approaching the matter in an aggressive manner, and she is absent from her usual library trips for a few days in a row before she feels capable of returning.
Still, knowing herself and her tendency to lash out, perhaps it would be best to not have a discussion on the matter inside the library -- as little as she generally cared about the property of others, she had been enjoying the sanctuary of the place as of late, and felt a slight twinge of guilt imagining its shelves destroyed.
Instead, she waits outside the front door on a day she suspects Vergil will come back to return his latest findings, the book he lent her in hand. ]
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[Thus, it is far more noteworthy to him to see her loitering about near to the entrance as she currently happens to be. That strikes Vergil as more unusual.]
Waiting for someone?
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What a coincidence, [ she says with a wry smile. ] Just the man I was waiting for.
[ She turns to face him, lifting the book to draw attention to the title. ] I finished this, and had some thoughts about your recommendation ... but, well, I thought it rather rude to engage in a debate in a designated quiet zone.
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[He heaves a sigh, half-tempted to simply walk past her through the front door. But Oleandra has not proven herself to be a consistent nuisance to him that he's willing to disregard her so intensely and acutely. So, he willingly steps aside so as not to block the door himself. He stands before her with his arms crossed.]
There is nothing I wish to discuss, let alone debate.
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I beg your pardon?
[ She lets the hand holding up the book drop, head tilting to the side in careful curiosity. She is genuinely confused about his response, even if she's also now doubly irritated. Even if she hadn't taken exception to the specifics of what he had recommended her, she had assumed that at some point they would, you know, check in and share their opinions on what the other had recommended. ]
Am I to understand, then, that recommending me this was your subtle way of telling me to fuck off, or ...?
[ She trails off, waiting for an explanation. She had expected perhaps this book was some form of admonishment for her behavior, but his refusal to engage at all sets off alarms in the part of her brain damaged by neglect and rejection, and she jumps straight into wondering what she did this time to have this person want nothing to do with her ... and how did she miss the signs of someone looking to get rid of her? ]
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In the time that you've known me, have I ever seemed like the sort of person who reaches for subtlety in expressing myself? [Vergil shakes his head slightly.] I've no quarrel with you, Oleandra. I simply come to the library for its relative quiet.
Some random day | un: xBlackKnightx
I was at the mall and theres a store there with a bookstore cafe that also sells records, and they have a big cozy back section with little partishins with couches and comfy chairs n stuff in them, so you can sit there and read or listen to the music on headphones.
We should go!!!!
- Nero β‘β‘β‘
[This is, make no mistake, another attempt by Nero to Bother his Father in a long game to make him use text messages like a normal person.
But in, like, a cute way.]
un: Vergil
Nero,
That sounds quite the unique find to cater so closely to both our interests. I would be open to going with you if that is your wish.
- Dad
P.S. For your future reference, it's not a word that's spelled the way it sounds: partitions.
[Vergil knows writing it closer to a letter or written note is technically unnecessary, but since Nero is going the extra mile to write more properly that way as well, Vergil opts to respond in kind.]
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No, he's not in his jacket, boots, and holster anymore. He'd changed into a black long-sleeved shirt and some sweats. Real Smokin' Sexy Stlye!! and all. Socks on as well, he curls up beneath the sheets and burrows his way beneath them there on his side, head dropped to the pillow some while staring to his brother's figure in the darkness of the room. )
My room keeps spinning.
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If you're going to be in here, shut up and go to sleep, [he mumbles, irritably.]
[Without sparing a glance to his alarm clock, Vergil has no idea the time beyond that it's still night based upon the darkness of the room and outside his windows. )Were it not for the rising and setting of the sun, it's likely he would have lost all sense of time by now with how much he's slept off and on each day.) And given that, he'd rather not be awake just yet. Not when there's a completely boring day ahead of him in being confined to his room or the couch. Although Nero did promise a couple laps around the block tomorrow provided Vergil wasn't any worse in the morning. Fresh air would be nice, and Vergil is antsy to see something beyond the walls of the house at this point.]
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I don't feel good. You can't be mean to me.
( Another little kick, just for good measure, he buries his face into the pillow, coughing again. )
That's the rules when you're sick. Gotta do whatever I say.
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First of all, those are the rules for someone's birthday, but considering we share a birthday, it's never applied. [He draws the blankets closer to himself.] Secondly, you're not the only one ill and you started pestering me first.
[So. shut up and go to sleep, Dante!!]
The morning after Kyrie arrives | xBlackKnightx
Thank you for bringing Kyrie home and taking care of her. She said you were a real gentleman.
I told her everything. She's shaken up but she wants to hear you out. I'll be there if you want me to but no matter what, I know it's gonna be OK.
I'm your son and I'm proud of you.
- Nero